


A Hole in the World

by rabidchild67



Category: White Collar
Genre: Action, Amnesia, Case Fic, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Male-Female Friendship, Presumed Dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-07
Updated: 2012-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-13 18:38:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter is missing and presumed dead after a dangerous undercover assignment goes wrong. Somewhere in Pennsylvania, a man wakes up without his memories. Somewhere in New York, a wife and best friend won’t give up hope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hole in the World

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Collar Corner's Fic Exchange 2011; my recipient was sholio. 
> 
> Originally posted on my LJ: http://rabidchild67.livejournal.com/92047.html

**Late September**

Peter bent his head against the stiff wind that was now whipping around them as they walked; up here on the overpass, it was stronger, surprisingly cold for this early in the Fall. 

“Yeah, _we’re_ not gonna make it to the meet.”

Peter stopped walking as soon as Vladic said it, something in his tone sending a knife of dread through him. He turned, froze as he saw the gun in the other man’s hands.

“Mick,” he began, holding up a hand, conciliatory. But he knew he was made. What more was there to say? 

Mick shrugged, as if to apologize, raised the gun and fired.

Peter’s only thought in that moment was for Elizabeth; he couldn’t bear the thought of her grieving for him. _I’m sorry, hon_ was his last thought as he fell into darkness.

xxXXxxXXxxXXxx

Neal looked up as a half dozen Organized Crime blockheads breezed past his desk. They swept through the bullpen and towards the steps, converging on Hughes’ office. He watched with interest, but there was no movement, and so he went back to his work. Ten minutes later, Bancroft arrived with two lackeys in tow, which really got Neal’s attention.

“What the hell’s that all about?” he asked Diana, making a beeline to her desk.

Diana glanced up towards Hughes’ office, a worried expression on her face. “Can’t be good.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” Neal said, concern creasing his brow. Peter had been deep undercover for the last three months, an operation that was so secretive even Diana couldn’t glean anything. Neal had been temporarily reassigned to her for the duration, and the two had formed a closer bond. They were staring uneasily at Hughes’ closed door when it opened, disgorging half its occupants. Hughes himself emerged on their heels and gave Neal and Diana both the double finger point.

Neal buttoned his jacket as he paused to let Diana precede him up the stairs, his mind racing, praying this had nothing to do with Peter and everything to do with the insurance fraud case he and Di had caught earlier in the week.

He was soon proved wrong.

“Berrigan, Caffrey, this is Special Agent Del Spofford from Organized Crime. He’s been Agent Burke's handler for the case he’s been lent out for. What we’re about to tell you both does not leave this room.” Hughes paused to scrub a hand over his jaw before taking a large breath and continuing. “Agent Burke is missing.”

Neal stiffened. “What happened?”

“He missed two scheduled check-ins,” Spofford said. 

“Well, did you look for him?” Neal’s tone was accusatory.

“Of course. There’s no sign of him at his place – the one his cover identity has been using.”

Neal nodded, anger making the whites of his eyes show. “Don’t tell me you went inside? What if they’re watching it?”

Spofford sat forward in his chair, the senior agent unaccustomed to being taken to task by a criminal informant. “Of course not, I’m not deeply stupid!” He looked at Hughes. “You let him talk to you like this?”

“Not to me, no,” Hughes said dryly. “He gets results, though, and he knows Burke better than anyone. It’s why I called him in here.” Spofford glared at Neal as Hughes continued, but Neal was unperturbed. “Caffrey, we are hoping that Burke left some clue as to his whereabouts in the apartment his cover identity is renting in Long Island City, but since we can’t very well be seen coming and going with evidence boxes and lab techs, we’ll need to ask you to use your special skills to investigate.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Berrigan will go with you, to see that you stay out of trouble.”

“I’d work faster alone.”

“And yet I don’t care.”

Neal opened his mouth to protest, but Diana interrupted him. “What are we looking for, exactly? What’s the case? It would help us to focus.”

Spofford gave Neal the stinkeye, but Hughes continued. “One of Peter’s aliases got a hit, looked like a low level cybercrime outfit. The usual stuff – phishing scams and bank fraud. But after a bit of investigation, it was clear they were part of a bigger operation, and Peter was sent in to try to discover who was behind it all, to try to trace the money.”

“Burke suspected it could be a big fish, someone in the Horvath family, maybe the big man himself,” Spofford continued. “If he had proof of it, I never saw it. If he met with the man, I don’t know. He said there was to be a meet with _someone_ higher up in the organization the last time I heard from him, and it was supposed to be two nights ago. He missed our scheduled check-in yesterday morning, and then again today. It’s not like him. Something went wrong.”

Despite wanting to maintain a level of hostility with the man, Spofford’s words hit home for Neal, and he had to agree. He leaned forward, his hands on the chair in front of him. “We need to move fast. If it’s been two days, they could have tossed his place, gotten what they needed already.” He looked at Diana. “What do you say – up for some light B&E?”

She shrugged. “For Peter? Anything.”

“Be careful,” Hughes said and they left immediately.

“We’ll have to stop at the Technical Unit for a few things,” Neal said as they headed to the elevators.

“Whatever it takes, Neal.”

“You’re not kidding.”

\----

Neal paused just inside the elevator doors in Peter’s building in Long Island City, a hand on Diana’s elbow to keep her beside him. His eyes were on the tiny signal detector he held in his hands. He walked slowly out into the hallway, sweeping for any devices that may be transmitting from there. 

“Getting anything?”

“Getting a lot of things. You got the RF jammer ready to go?” She nodded. “Hit it.”

When Diana activated the device, a low-frequency whistle sounded, then went silent. “We just killed everyone’s cell phone and wireless network for three floors,” she pointed out with a smirk.

“And jammed any surveillance devices that might be set up on Peter’s place. Better them than us.” He moved over to the door for apartment 614 and picked the lock in less than thirty seconds; then it was Diana’s turn to take over. She drew her weapon and eased through the door, systematically searching the studio to be sure they were alone.

“It’s clear,” she called to Neal and he went in. The place was tiny – surely the FBI ought to have sprung for a larger place, Neal thought – and furnished spartanly. A pull-out couch and TV dominated half the space, a desk with a laptop computer and monitor the other half. There was no art on the walls, no collectibles, personal photos or anything to indicate that a person even lived there. 

“Guess we’d better start searching the place,” Diana commented.

“Yeah,” Neal said distractedly and sat down at the computer. He poked around on the machine while she searched through the closet and kitchenette, and after a few minutes, she returned to find Neal staring thoughtfully at a Chinese restaurant’s take out menu that was tacked to the wall above the PC.

“Either they beat us to it and were mighty neat about it, or Peter left nothing behind.”

“The PC’s got nothing – no browser history, not a single file. I can’t even tell if he used it. Maybe the techs can find something.”

“Then we’ve got nothing, no clue,” Diana said bleakly, and sat on the edge of the desk facing Neal.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he replied, standing and untacking the menu from the wall. “Hungry?”

\----

“It’s a what now?” Diana asked Neal, leaning over his shoulder as he poured over the menu. They had gone to his apartment immediately after their search of Peter’s place with the laptop, the menu and a few other items Neal thought might be significant. 

“There’s a Fibonacci sequence hidden in the menu. Look here.” He indicated a single line. “Ever known an eggroll to cost $89? It’s a clue, a code.”

“To what?”

“I don’t know.” A series of knocks at his door done in iambic pentameter signaled the arrival of someone. Neal rose and went to open the door, where an annoyed Mozzie stood. “But here’s the guy who’s going to figure it out.”

xxXXxxXXxxXXxx

It’s funny how awareness returns to a person who is unconscious. Whether it’s because of drugs or sleep or a bash over the head, it’s pretty much the same – a subtle return of the senses from the outside in, temperature followed by sound, scent, and finally personal spatial awareness.

He’d take the time to reflect on this phenomenon if he didn’t hurt so goddamn much. 

The first thing he noticed was that he was cold. The second was the undeniable scent of diesel fuel. The third was the sound of traffic around him. And finally, pain – in his head, in his arm. Scratch that – shoulder. Crap, what the hell had happened?

He opened his eyes and stared at a black blob of…something. He blinked and moved his head back and the blob resolved itself into a metal frame into which a large – strike that: gigantic spool of cabling had been housed. Perplexed, he sat up and realized he was nestled up against another. He twisted around, wincing from the generalized pain he was in, to get a better look and realized he must have fallen onto the bed of a truck that was hauling electrical cable. A flash of movement to his left drew his attention and he saw a red pickup truck drive past.

Surprised, he took a better look at his surroundings and realized that the truck he was currently sitting on was moving slowly through traffic. To his right they passed a strip mall, a gas station, a Dunkin’ Donuts. To his left was farmland. The throbbing in his shoulder drew his attention and he looked down. There was a stain of blood on his left shoulder that spread down his chest, and somehow knowing it made it worse. He reached up to grab it and the movement jarred it, sending stabs of pain into his brain. He could feel a grinding there – the bullet was still inside him. 

There was a bullet inside him – he knew that with certainty. How? What happened? He couldn’t think, couldn’t put it all together, though what remained was a general feeling of alarm. Someone hurt him, but he had gotten away. He had to get further away. 

Lightheaded, in pain, he hugged his arm to his stomach to keep the shoulder immobilized, and moved to the edge of the truck’s bed. He waited a minute until he judged it had slowed down enough and then jumped down. When he hit the ground, he misjudged and his ankle twisted to the side. He fell, rolling onto his good shoulder, but the jarring was too much and he lay in the road in a heap.

\----

Rebecca Papas drove with an eye on the road and the other on the clock. She was going to be late for her shift at the hospital – again – but it was for a good cause: she’d gotten to see her nephew Matthew take first place at the school Science Fair.

She glanced over at the donut shop at the side of the road, wondering how much later she’d be if she hit the drive through for a vanilla latte, when a movement off the back of the large hauler in front of her caught her eye. A man suddenly appeared from somewhere aboard the big rig and moved stiffly to its edge, jumping off as the truck slowed. She watched as he rolled into the road’s shoulder, wondering just what the hell he could’ve been thinking, when she noticed that he did not get up immediately. Not wanting him to be hurt by oncoming traffic - people turning right used the shoulder to bypass the line at the light - she angled her car across traffic and threw it into park.

She jumped out of the car to a chorus of honks and shouts around her, in response to which she drew up to her full five feet two inches of height and flipped them all the bird. She was accustomed to dealing with all sorts of unpleasantness in the course of her day, and this was no different.

“Hey, buddy, you OK?” she asked the man, who lay curled up on his side facing away from her. She rolled him gently onto his back and quickly saw that he was not. She pointed at the first angry motorist, who’d emerged from his car and ordered him to call 911. 

The stranger was clutching at his shoulder, his eyes screwed shut. Rebecca gently tried to pull his hand away. “It’s OK, I’m a nurse. I got ya.” She unbuttoned the shirt he was wearing and pushed it aside to get a better look at his injury. It was clearly a gunshot wound, and the bullet was still inside his shoulder, which she knew must hurt like hell. He was pale and shocky, she noticed as she assessed his vital signs. 

He cried out as she prodded the injury. “I know, I’m sorry,” she said soothingly. “Someone got you good, didn’t they?”

“I gotta go,” he muttered, trying to sit up. 

It was not hard to stop him, he was so weak from blood loss. She eased him back onto the ground with her hands on his shoulders. “Not such a good idea. Don’t worry, you’re safe. An ambulance will be here any minute.”

“Please,” he said, gripping both her wrists in one large hand. 

She saw fear in his eyes, panic, which she knew was attributable to the injury. But there was a gentleness there too, and helplessness, and it kicked her mothering instincts into overdrive. “I’m sorry,” she told him, turned her hand within of his grip to clasp his hands. “Relax, you’re going to be OK. You have to believe me. Do you believe me?”

He nodded and closed his eyes, relaxing, and Rebecca thought she heard the far off wail of the ambulance’s siren. “Good. Hey – thanks for giving me an excuse for being late, bud. You sure have made my morning a lot more interesting,” she added.

He smiled weakly. 

“I’m Rebecca, by the way. What’s your name?” He opened his mouth, then closed it promptly, shook his head. “You don’t want to say?” 

He shook his head again and opened his eyes. “I can’t remember.”

The realization amped up the panic in his eyes and he became agitated. She put a hand on his uninjured shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly. “It’s OK. Probably only temporary. Relax, it’ll all be OK.” But inside, she was concerned – amnesia was not all that common, and she wondered what other injury he’d sustained that might have caused it. “Look, the ambulance is here. We’ll get you fixed up in no time.”

\----

When he woke up again, he was warm and comfortable, and a beam of sunlight cast across his eyes made everything yellow. The throbbing in his head was now a dull ache, and the pain in his shoulder was muted – still there, but less so. Almost before opening his eyes, he knew he was in the hospital. 

He blinked at the bright sunlight and turned his head, tried to get his bearings. He was alone in the room, his right arm had an IV in it, his left was immobilized. And he was thirsty.

There was a plastic cup and pitcher on the tray beside the bed and he reached out for it, but the IV in his arm prevented him from moving it very far. His fingertips brushed the handle on the pitcher – just enough to push it completely out of reach. He made a disappointed whining sound and pulled his arm back. He looked around and saw the bed’s controls threaded along the rail and gave a triumphant grunt as he maneuvered the bed to a more upright position, putting the pitcher within reach.

“Want some help with that?”

He looked up and saw the woman who had helped him on the road standing in the doorway, dressed in blue surgical scrubs. She was petite, with olive skin and long, black curls that even now struggled to be contained by the clip that held them in a haphazard ponytail at the back of her head. She had green, almond-shaped eyes, set wide in a friendly, pretty face that was smiling at him. Her manner immediately made him feel calm.

“Sure, now you show up,” he said lightly, or attempted to. His voice was very scratchy. She smiled and poured him some water, handed him the cup with a bendy straw in it. “Where am I?”

“The surgical recovery ward at Ephrata Community Hospital.”

“And where is Ephrata Community Hospital?”

“Lancaster County.”

He creased his brow, knew that ought to mean something. 

“Pennsylvania,” she added. 

He nodded, still confused. 

“And from your reaction, I’d say you still have no memory of who you are or how you got here.” 

This realization brought back the panic he’d felt earlier, but it was less frightening somehow – dulled by the pain meds, he surmised. “How long have I been here?” 

“A day.”

“I need to go.” He fumbled with the blanket that covered him, and she actually laughed.

“You’re in no shape to go anywhere. You’ve lost a significant amount of blood, you’ve got a hole in your shoulder and a cracked skull. If you make it to the door of this room without puking, I’ll be amazed. I welcome you to try it, but I don’t recommend it.” 

He blinked at her, taken aback by her directness, but she stepped forward and put a reassuring hand on his knee, which he found disarming. She was a confusing blend of caring and smartass, and he didn’t know what to make of her. 

“Just relax and heal - that’s about all you can do. You’ve got nothing to worry about here.”

He nodded, but couldn’t shake the feeling that she was somehow wrong.

xxXXxxXXxxXXxx

Moz sat at Neal’s table, a glass of Bordeaux in his hand, staring at the Chinese menu. The thing was clearly not authentic – there were no noodle dishes. But there was also no doubting it had been left behind by the Suit as a clue. Fibonacci values were scattered throughout the thing, but Moz couldn’t discern whether it was a logarithm or other code. He did notice that the only sole instance of the number “0” was set pretty much in the dead center of the thing. He gestured vaguely to the Lady Suit. “Bring me my bag.”

“It’s right next to you,” she pointed out.

He gave her a put-upon look and leaned over to retrieve it, pulling out what he needed.

“You have a protractor and a compass in there?” Diana asked, incredulous.

“Doesn’t everybody?” Moz asked, and pulled the desk lamp closer to him as he set to work drawing angles and curves on the menu.

“What are you doing – that’s our only copy!” Diana exclaimed.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m using a pencil,” Moz replied, and kept drawing. 

“A [ Fibonacci spiral](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fibonacci_spiral)?” Neal guessed as he went. 

“Yeah. Your Suit is very clever,” Moz said as he drew a series of radiating quarter circles that filled the page, until he ran out of room. “The vertex for each right angle here points at a different letter. Must be a message.” 

He grabbed the pad of vellum that sat on the table and wrote out the letters: _NC HAS THE KEY_.

“The key to what?” Neal and Diana said in unison.

Moz shrugged and Neal began to chew on a thumbnail, thinking. His eyes fell on the laptop they’d taken from Peter’s apartment, and Moz followed them. “I thought you said there was nothing on there?” Moz said.

“Nothing I could find. Maybe you’ll have better luck?”

“Challenge accepted.”

“In the meantime, I’ll have to update Hughes on our progress,” Diana said, pulling out her phone.

Neal’s face suddenly sobered even more. “And there’s someone else that needs an update.”

\----

Neal stood on the doorstep of the Burkes’ house, reluctant to knock on the door and bring Elizabeth the news that would verify so many of her fears. Peter had been undercover for weeks, and she had borne up relatively well, but the times that Neal had visited her, he could sense an underlying stress, an edginess that he understood completely. White Collar crimes like art forgery and mortgage fraud weren’t supposed to land her husband in any kind of danger, and undercover assignments were even rarer. Neal felt Elizabeth’s worry keenly, and had made sure to be on hand in case her spirits needed a lift. 

But he was not here to lift them today.

He raised his hand to knock when he heard the inner door to the vestibule open and Elizabeth’s heels clicking on the parquet floor. 

“Neal!” she said with surprise as she opened the door. She had her purse slung over her shoulder and he could tell she was on her way out. 

“Elizabeth,” he said, his throat suddenly tight.

She picked up on his anxiety immediately. “What’s happened?”

“Can I come in?”

“Just tell me,” she said, her voice suddenly ragged.

“Peter’s missing.”

He rushed forward and caught her by the elbow as she seemed to sway on her feet. “What?“

“He missed a scheduled check-in the last two mornings.”

“Oh.” She seemed to wilt in his arms, so he guided her back into the house and sat her down on the couch. He ran to get her a glass of water and stood in front of her holding it out. She was staring into the middle distance and didn’t appear to register his presence. 

“Elizabeth?” She looked up at him and the resignation in her eyes nearly broke his heart. He sat down next to her and rubbed her back. 

“I don’t have a good feeling about this, Neal. I never did.”

“He’ll be fine. We’ll find him – Mozzie and Diana are working on something right now.”

“Really?”

“Peter left a clue behind; we think it’ll lead to some evidence he was trying to hide. I think that if he was being careful enough to hide the information he’s gathered, then he’s smart enough to lie low if things got too bad. He’s out there – we just need to know where to look.”

“You think so?”

He smiled, hoping to project reassurance he didn’t feel – hoping he could even believe it himself. “I have to.”

xxXXxxXXxxXXxx

He woke with a start as the orderly brought him his lunch and laid it on his tray. He reached out instinctively with his left hand to pull it closer, winced as the pain in his shoulder intensified with the movement. But when he looked down, he noticed the indentation and tan line on his finger where a ring clearly used to reside. He looked more closely at that finger, rubbed the empty space with the pad of his thumb. The gesture felt familiar, like he’d done it many times before, but it didn’t jog any other memories. He turned his hand over, looked at his palm and was struck with the feeling that he was doing it for the first time. He felt unfamiliar with his own skin, alien inside his own body. It was a disconcerting experience.

He pulled the tray closer to see what was for lunch – meatloaf covered with some sort of grey sludge, mashed potatoes that were about the consistency of wallpaper glue, and green beans that were more grey than green. His stomach flipped.

“Not enjoying the gourmet fare?” Rebecca asked archly from the doorway, a knowing smile on her face.

“It leaves a lot to be desired,” he admitted, picking up the roll that lay next to the plate and fumbling to butter it.

She walked over to him and gave him a quick examination, checking his bandages and recording his vital signs. “How’m I doing?”

“As well as can be expected. “How are you _feeling_?”

“Like someone shot me and then bashed in my skull. You know – a typical Tuesday.”

She smirked. “Except that today is Friday. Any of your memories come back?” She shone a penlight into his eyes and nodded, satisfied with his pupils’ reaction. 

He shook his head. 

She put a hand on his wrist. “Listen, the police are here to speak with you. It’s standard procedure in these kinds of cases…”

He nodded, accepting it, but the thought of anyone learning where he was made him feel a degree of panic that he knew the presence of the police ought not to have done. Rebecca picked up on his discomfort and squeezed his arm. “It’s OK, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I – thank you.” He pulled his arm away from hers and began to poke at the meatloaf with his fork, avoiding her eyes. He couldn’t shake the overwhelming feeling that he couldn’t trust anyone. 

She left briefly and returned with a young officer in tow, who she introduced as “Officer Ted.” Ted, who’d obviously been on the job for maybe a week, nervously asked him the questions he would have expected. _Did he know what happened or who shot him?_ No – his first memory was of waking up on the bed of the truck. _Did he know his name or where he came from?_ No. _Would he mind if they fingerprinted him?_

“What? I don’t understand – am I being charged with a crime?”

“No, sir.”

“Is it standard procedure to fingerprint crime victims around here?”

“Well, no, but –“

“Then I don’t think so, Ted.”

“If your prints are on file, then we’ll be able to find out who you are,” Rebecca pointed out.

His anxiety lessened somewhat, but the feeling that he’d had since waking up on the truck that someone was after him did not, and he could not let it go.“I’m going to say no for now, unless Officer Ted tells me this is something I have to do. Is it, officer?”

“No, sir.”

“Then thank you.”

Rebecca gave him an odd look, but sent the officer away. “I suppose paranoia must be natural for a man who woke up with a bullet in his shoulder, but you should reconsider. We might be able to find your family. You’ll know who you are.”

The thought of finding his loved ones gave him a pang he hadn’t allowed himself to feel since this ordeal began, but again the need for secrecy that had a hold on him won out, and he felt a stab of sorrow and regret at the thought. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just -”

“I understand the desire to keep a low profile, probably more than you think. Anyway, it’s none of my business. How’s your pain level?” 

“It’s fine.”

“I’ll be back later with your meds, OK?”

He suddenly felt like he had something to look forward to, and he smiled. “OK.”

“And maybe I’ll bring you something a little more palatable than that sludgy stuff.” She pointed at the tray with a grimace, and now he really had something to look forward to.

\----

_He lay with his head in her lap and his eyes closed as she fed him apple slices and told him about her day. She spoke lightly, told him amusing stories punctuated by light caresses of his head with her fingers. In between, she leaned back on the hillside where they were, stared up at the sky, and named the shapes in the clouds._

_“What was that?” he asked her, as she laughed. He opened his eyes to look at her, but the sun behind her head cast her face in shadow._

_“When will you come home?”_

He woke with a start to find himself not on a grass-covered hill in the sunlight, but a sterile hospital room in Pennsylvania. The feeling of calm and safety he felt in the dream quickly dissipated as he realized it was over. He was here. He didn’t know who he was, or who the woman he dreamt of was, or where he was from. Names, places, even her face – he couldn't place any of it, and he thought it ought to have left him feeling frustrated or angry, but the only emotion he could muster was sadness.

Feeling the need to move, he pushed himself into an upright position, winced at the pain in his shoulder, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He stared at his bare feet, and the linoleum floor beneath them and waited to feel strong enough to slide out of the bed.

“Going somewhere?” said a now-familiar voice.

“Rebecca, hello. I need to get moving, I’m going stir-crazy.”

“Well, don’t try too hard – I don’t want you falling over and pulling out your stitches. Hang on a second.” She left and returned a minute later with a wheelchair, which he was ashamed to realize he needed her help getting into. 

Minutes later, they left the hospital and she took him on a stroll around its grounds, which were dotted with shade trees, the sound of incessant birdsong punctuated by the occasional noise of a passing car from the nearby road. “It’s nice here,” he commented, making small talk.

“Yeah, freaking quaint and whatnot,” she said and he laughed. 

“I take it you don’t like quaint?”

“I grew up in a city – I like the hustle and bustle. How about you – any sense of where you grew up in that smashed potato of yours?”

“No, but I had a dream I was lying on a hill just now. It felt familiar, like a memory, but I’m not sure.”

“That’s a good thing, a very good thing. What did you remember?”

“I was with a woman and she was feeding me apples.”

“See? That’s a clue right there. They have apples where you come from,” she kidded.

He laughed again. “Brilliant deduction! So we know I’m not from Antarctica. That’s one continent ticked off the list.”

“Progress is progress.” She parked him beside a bench and took a seat. “Listen, some of the nurses have decided on a name for you. This sometimes happens when we get a John Doe in here.”

“Cuz ‘John Doe’ is so commonplace.”

“Exactly. 

“As long as it’s not Aloysius or Mortimer, I’ll entertain anything.”

“I’m not sure it suits you, but here goes: Anthony.”

He made a contemplative face. “I don’t feel like an Anthony.”

“You don’t look like an Anthony, either, but it’s already stuck.”

“Well, I suppose it’s no better than any other name. He is the patron saint of lost things.”

“And people. And we now know you grew up Catholic. Maybe.”

“Well, there you go – that takes several billion other people out of the equation. More progress!” He almost felt light and cheerful as he talked with her, kidded with her about his unique situation. But then he was reminded that he was a man without a past, without a home, and he didn’t know what the future looked like for him. The realization sobered him.

She picked up on his change in mood immediately and reached out to squeeze his knee. “Everything’ll be OK, Anthony. You’ll see.”

xxXXxxXXxxXXxx

“Neal.”

“What, Moz?”

“There’s nothing on this damn computer.”

Neal hung his head. “Are you sure?”

“It’s like it’s just come from the factory – it’s as pure as the driven snow.”

Neal rose and crossed the apartment to stand behind Moz at the table. He leaned over and looked at the display over his friend’s shoulder. “There has to be something there, Moz, there has to. Peter wouldn’t have left it behind if there wasn’t. He wouldn’t have left that code if there wasn’t.” 

“Well, there’s nothing,” Moz said, scrolling through a window with a long list of files on it, “no hidden partitions, no databases, not even a browser history. Not a – hold on a second.”

“What?” 

Moz clicked on a few files, opened a few more windows on the PC. “This registry file is awfully large. We may have something here. Give me a few minutes.”

Moz picked away at the files for several minutes, and finally Neal gave up watching tensely over his shoulder to take up watching tensely from across the room, a glass of water in his hands. To say a lot rode on this clue panning out was an understatement. Peter had literally vanished without a trace, a fact that scared Neal more than he’d admit to anyone but himself. He’d spent the previous night in the Burkes’ guest room, for Elizabeth’s sake, cooking her dinner and trying to keep her spirits up. He didn’t want to leave her that morning, but needed to work with Moz on the case. He wanted to crack the PC’s mysteries “in-house” before Hughes insisted on letting the FBI’s tech department take over, and had convinced Diana to give them 24 hours with the thing.

The fact that Peter had gone in undercover against the Horvath family scared him more than he wanted to admit. The “old man” had established the crime syndicate with his cousin in the sixties, and originally they’d run numbers, drugs and prostitution for large swaths of Queens. They had a reputation for undying loyalty among their people, and swift, unrelenting consequences against their enemies. To cross them was to commit suicide. Peter’s disappearance at this time did not bode well, and a lot rode on , the clue from the menu panning out. That Moz may have found something on the laptop was important, but it did not fill Neal with as much hope as it ought to; the Horvaths were brutal and if Peter was missing after an encounter with them, there could really only be one conclusion.

Moz made a series of harrumphing noises that seemed promising, punctuating it all finally with a whispered, “Gotcha!” at the end.

“You found something?”

“Maybe. He’s clever, that Agent Burke, I’ll hand it to him. I doubt any random thug would’ve found this thing at all – it’s well-hidden.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. It’s encrypted.”

“Can you crack it?” 

“Not without a super computer and a few weeks’ time.”

Neal felt his hopes sinking fast. “You’re sure?”

“Without the encryption key, it’s useless.”

“What was that?”

“The encryption key. It’ll unlock the code that’s scrambling the file. If we have that…” he looked at Neal, “we _do have that._ ”

“ _NC HAS THE KEY._ OK, now we know what I’m supposed to have the key to. What’s the key look like? Where am I supposed to have it?”

“It’d be a long series of 16 or 32 characters – numbers, letters, symbols. Things you’d see on a keyboard.”

“That could be anything.” 

“Well, it must be something he thinks you’d know or have in order to crack this. Something obvious. Bank account number?”

“None of mine have that many characters. Credit card?”

“Maybe,” Moz said, and began keying numbers into the computer.

“You know my credit card numbers by heart?” Neal said, not a little annoyed.

“Don’t you?” A minute later, he was shaking his head. “Nope. Any other codes in your life – your prisoner ID number, key card at the FBI, anything?”

Neal started pacing, thinking. After another minute, he noticed that Mozzie was staring at his feet. More specifically – his left foot. “What?”

“What about your federally-mandated accessory there?” Neal glanced down at it. “It must have a serial number or something on it?”

“It does.”

“What is it?”

“How am I supposed to know? It’s on the inside of the cuff, I can’t see it.”

“But Peter knows it, or would be able to access it, wouldn’t he?”

“It’s worth a shot – I’ll call Diana.”

Thirty minutes later, Diana showed up with the key to the anklet in hand, and Neal was peering at the manufacturer’s sticker on the inside of it. “It’s sixteen characters!” he reported excitedly and read them out to Moz. 

“That’s it!” he said. “Holy shit, that’s exactly it. I love it when I’m clever.”

Neal and Diana peered over his shoulder as the now-decrypted file decompressed itself, filling the PC’s hard drive with a series of documents, photos and other evidence Peter had clearly collected while he’d been undercover. Diana sat down and pulled the laptop to face her and Moz handed her the mouse. “There’re lists of suspects here, victims of the cybercrime ring – everything. Great job, you guys. We should be able to build a solid case, I think.”

“But what’s it say about where the Suit is?” Moz asked.

Diana clicked around with the mouse some more. “I don’t see anything like that, not yet,” she said, disappointed. “We’ll keep looking into the people in here, build a case, see if we have probable cause to start questioning some of them. This is tremendous work, Moz, really.”

Moz blushed at her praise and mumbled something incomprehensible. But the thrill at having cracked the code hadn’t lasted for Neal, who was still very worried about the now three day-long silence his partner had left behind.

xxXXxxXXxxXXxx

_He dreamt he was in a house, one filled with bright light and a traditional, pre-War feel to it. It felt familiar to him – the art on the walls, the creaking of the railing as he climbed the stairs. Photographs lined the wall along those stairs. When he looked at them more closely, the faces of their occupants were blurry, and he couldn’t focus on them no matter how hard he tried._

_A woman was laughing on the second floor and he climbed the remaining stairs, following the sound. She was near the window of a bedroom, playing with a yellow dog. The dog had a stuffed giraffe in its mouth that squeaked every time he bit down on it, and the woman was trying to pull the thing from the animal’s mouth. She stood up when she heard him enter, and once again the sunlight that streamed through the windows obscured her features. “You’re here,” she said happily. “You found us.”_

_“I don’t know who you are,” he said sadly._

_“You will.”_

_“I don’t think so.” He was so confused. He wanted to recognize her – he knew he must, but there was a fog in his brain that blotted out all the important information._

_“You will.”_

The sound of a paper bag crinkling woke him, but the aroma coming from it held his interest. “Whatcha got there?” Anthony asked Rebecca. The bag was white with a cartoon pizza man printed on it.

“Cheesesteak. It’s from the best place in town. Thought you’d enjoy this instead of the chicken a la king that’s on the lunch menu.”

“You’re a real Florence Nightingale,” he said sincerely, and reached for the bag. The sandwich was large, greasy, smothered in American cheese, fried onions and peppers. He paused, looked at it.

“Something wrong? There’s ketchup in the bag.”

“No, that’s not it…I just had this feeling that I’m not supposed to be eating this. Like it’s not allowed.”

“Well, that answers another mystery, maybe,” Rebecca said thoughtfully, leaning a hip against his bed. “If you’re feeling guilty over a cheesesteak, then there’s someone back home who cares about what you eat.”

He felt a pang, remembering the woman from his dreams. “Maybe.”

“Yeah, so maybe if you let the police fingerprint you, we can find them. What do you think of that?”

He dropped the cheesesteak onto its wrapper. “No, I can’t. I just…I can’t shake the feeling that someone is after me, that I need to keep who I am a secret. It’s about the only thing I am sure of, even if I don’t know my name.”

“Or hey – maybe you’re wanted for armed robbery in seven states,” Rebecca joked, but Anthony didn’t laugh. “You’re not wanted for armed robbery, are you?” she said, suddenly serious.

“Well, that’s another issue, isn’t it? Because I don’t know.”

He met her eyes and she returned his gaze, unblinking. She shook her head. “You’re not a criminal.”

“Oh, really? How can you tell?”

“I know people. I know good ones and I know bad ones. I’ve gotten really good at spotting the bad ones, believe me.” She shook her head, and Anthony saw a flash of pain and regret in her eyes. She looked back at him. “But you – I don’t believe you are a bad one.”

“Thanks.”He looked down at his hands and wondered what he might have done to deserve this woman’s kindness and respect. The last three days had been confusing, frustrating and frightening, and she had been the lone note of normalcy he’d experienced.

“You gonna eat that sandwich?” Rebecca asked archly, lightening the mood. “I mean it, it’s the best in town.”

\----

“Yes…Yes…Yes, yes,” Anthony’s surgeon said distractedly as he poked and prodded at his wounded shoulder. The doctor laid his hands on the joint and upper arm and gently moved it around as Anthony winced in discomfort. He eased the arm back into its sling and then made a few notations in Anthony’s chart. “It’s looking very good, Mr. Doe. We’ll schedule some physical therapy for you as an outpatient, but as long as your neurologist signs off, there’s no reason you can’t be released tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow?” Anthony said, keeping his voice neutral, but fighting off a rising sense of panic. He realized now that he hadn’t thought through what his decision to remain anonymous truly meant – he had nowhere to go, and no way of getting there.

“Mm-hmm,” the doctor answered with an absent-minded smile. “You’ll be as good as new in no time,” he added in his best confidence-instilling voice. He handed the chart to Rebecca, shook Anthony’s hand and left the room.

“They’re letting me out tomorrow.” She nodded. “Hurray.” He splayed his fingers in mock-excitement, all the while feeling the blood draining from his face. 

Rebecca hung his chart back on the rail at the foot of his bed and regarded him appraisingly. “You need a place to stay,” she said. 

It was not a question, nor an offer. It sounded to Anthony as if she were reasoning aloud. He just looked at her. 

She put her head back as if staring at the ceiling, but she had her eyes closed as she clearly made some mental calculations. When she did, she drew herself up to her full height, squared her shoulders and said, “I have a small apartment over my garage that I just use for storage. It’s not much, really, but you can use it until you get back on your feet.”

His gratitude for her offer was nearly outmatched by his relief at having somewhere to go. “Rebecca, I don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes before I change my mind.”

xxXXxxXXxxXXxx

It took a team of six agents three full days to piece together the evidence that Peter had left behind on the laptop’s hard drive. Three days of analysis of photographs, data files, server logs, financial records and more. In the end, they constructed a rough outline of an international cybercrime spree that appeared to be netting the Horvath crime family upwards of a million dollars per day.

Neal stood in the conference room, studying a white board that had a collection of more than twenty mugshots of suspected players in the crime ring arranged into a power structure with solid lines drawn to indicate where connections had been proven, and dotted lines where they were uncertain. Thanks to Peter’s efforts and the evidence he’d collected, more than three quarters of the lines were solid. 

Neal felt rather than heard the presence of another person in the room and turned as Agent Spofford came in and stood beside him in front of the board. 

“The enormity of this operation is staggering.” 

“And all of this came from Peter’s intel?”

Spofford nodded. “His work will put a lot of people away for a long time.”

“And what about the effort to find him? How does that go?”

“We’re doing everything in our power –“

“It’s not good enough,” Neal interrupted testily. Hughes had kept a tight leash on him since the evidence on the laptop had come to light, saying there would be no repeat of the situation when Keller kidnapped Peter. 

Compounding the matter, Spofford’s team had taken over the investigation and had frozen the White Collar team out, not sharing any information with them. Every feeler he and Moz had gotten them nowhere, and he was angry, worried and frustrated.

“Listen!” Spofford said, his voice rising, “I know he’s your partner, but this is my case, and Peter was my asset, and I resent any implication that we’re not doing everything possible to find him.”

“’ _Was_ ’ your asset? So you’ve written him off already?” 

“That’s not what I said.”

“You didn’t have to,” Neal said bitterly. “You gave up on him the day he failed to report in, and you used me to help you crack the case for you. You know what happens to people who cross the Horvaths. And meanwhile, they’ve had what – five days to get rid of a body? Whatever happened to ‘leave no man behind.’?”

Spofford flinched but held his tongue as Neal turned on his heel and left.

\----

 _”Come on, Stash,”_ Agent Tom Cooper said in what passed for a reasonable tone to the man in the hot seat. _”We know you launder money for the Horvaths. We’ve got you dead to rights on eighteen RICO counts and counting. Why don’t you make it easier on yourself and spill?”_

Stanley Brodowski was, indeed, an accomplished money launderer, having come up in the 80’s working for South American drug cartels, he’d graduated recently to a more local clientele, washing the Horvaths’ money for the last 15 years. Like his bosses, no one had been able to make a single charge stick on him. Until now.

Now he was sitting in an interrogation room at the FBI offices, a literal pile of evidence that Peter had compiled laid out before him. Cooper, one of the top interrogators in the Organized Crime division, had spent the last two hours laying out the information for him. Diana and an audience of half a dozen other agents had gathered in the observation room, waiting for Brodowski to crack.

 _”Easy is a relative term,”_ Brodowski answered after a minute’s reflection. _”A man in my line of work needs to be discreet.”_

 _”Ah, but you see, I know something you don’t think I do,”_ Cooper said, easing himself into the seat next to him. He produced another file folder and opened it up, sliding it closer so that Brodowski could see it clearly. _”You’ve been skimming off the top, filtering the money through these bank accounts in your kids’ names. Oh, looks like Stanley Jr.’s got quite the college fund there. What do you think Old Man Horvath’ll do when he finds this out?”_

Brodowski’s calm demeanor of the last two hours finally began to crack, and Diana hoped this would lead to some progress on finding Peter. She was no Pollyanna – she knew that if an undercover agent was missing without making contact for nearly a week, that the news could not be good. But there was a piece of her that dearly hoped that her mentor and friend was still out there somewhere, and that Brodowski would give them some clue.

In the interrogation room, another twenty minutes passed during which Brodowski finally began spilling some details to Cooper. Diana tried to take mental notes on the veteran agent’s technique, but was actually quite impatient for him to get to the part where he asked about Peter. At last, she was rewarded.

Cooper pulled a photo of Peter out from another of his stack of file folders and laid it before Brodowski. _”Tell me about this man.”_

Brodowski seemed to freeze. _”That’s Wayne Cotter. Some programmer or something. Mick Vladich used him for some of the banking scams, I think.”_

A sharp intake of breath behind her made Diana turn her head and she saw that Neal was in the back of the room, observing the interrogation along with everyone else. Like Neal, Diana recognized the name – he was not only the Old Man’s nephew and second in command, but also the family’s enforcer. 

Brodowski was laughing. _”I thought he was a rival for a couple of days when they first brought him around – I don’t get all that fancy programming and encryption stuff, not really. But he had a lot on the ball. Mick seemed to like him.”_

_” **Had** a lot on the ball?” _

_”Hey, don’t put words in my mouth, Agent. I don’t know what happened to him. All I know is what I heard – washer woman stuff.”_

_“And what did your washer women tell you?”_

_“That Wayne did something to piss off Mick. That we wouldn’t be seeing him around again. But that’s it, really – gossip. **Hearsay**.”_ He leaned closer to the microphone that sat on the table as he said this, ensuring his words would not be mistaken – he had no direct knowledge of the murder of Wayne Cotter, but there was no mistaking what had to have occurred. 

Vladich had killed Peter.

The news hit her like a physical blow as the room went totally still. “No, no, no, no, no.” she whispered, closing her eyes. In the interrogation room, Cooper was trying to press Brodowski for more details, but he wouldn’t offer any. Diana thought she might hyperventilate. She got up and stumbled out to the relatively cooler air in the hallway. She stood against the wall with her hands on her knees for fully five minutes before she realized Caffrey had not been in the room when she left it.

She found him in Peter’s office, staring out the window. “Neal,” she said, her voice low, tight. He turned his head and one look into his tear-filled eyes almost broke her, but she held it together. “How much of that did you hear?”

“Where’s the body?” Neal asked, his voice steadier than hers would’ve been. 

“He didn’t know. Or he wouldn’t say.” 

Neal nodded, turned to face her fully. “I’d better go and tell Elizabeth.” Diana put a hand on his arm as he moved past her, desperately clutching at the fabric of his jacket. He put his arms around her and she sobbed, once. Then let him go. 

He had a job to do and she wouldn’t delay him. 

\----

Neal was on auto pilot as he took a taxi to Brooklyn, his mind a complete blank. He didn’t actually register he’d arrived until the driver asked him if he was going to leave the cab or not. As he stood with his foot on the bottom step, he realized how weary he suddenly was, and that he’d give anything in the world to not have to bring this news to his best friend’s wife.

He knew she was home – she hadn’t left the house in five days. He let himself in with his lockpicks – she never seemed to mind, especially not lately. She was sitting at the table on the patio with a cup of hot tea, trying to pay her bills while Satchmo lay at her feet. The thumping of his tail alerted her to Neal’s presence, and she turned to peer up at him, her eyes questioning. One look at Neal’s face told her what she needed to know.

“OK,” she said, and Neal could see the trembling in her chin begin as the information sank in.

“Elizabeth,” he said as she rose and took a step toward him. He wrapped his arms around her, tucking her head under his chin and held her tight, as if doing so would somehow protect her, keep the reality away. But the shaking in her shoulders as she began to cry told him how impossible that would be. Soon, she was sobbing, her entire body wracked with it, and her legs were shaking so much that they couldn’t hold her up. Neal tried to hold her, support her, but his own sorrow just made him want to curl up into a ball himself, and so he eased them both to the sun-warmed pavers of the patio. 

Eventually, her sobs lessened and her trembling subsided. Neal handed her his handkerchief and she sat back on her knees and blew her nose noisily. When she looked up him, her face was tear-stained and blotchy. “Tell me everything.”

Neal dashed his own tears away with the back of his hand and sniffed. His voice sounded raw and foreign to his ears. “There’s not much detail yet. We don’t know if his identity was discovered, or if they were just suspicious of the new guy, or if he was caught gathering evidence. What we do know is there’s chatter that his cover identity was ‘taken care of,’ and the informant they were interrogating didn’t know where his bo – where he is now.”

El’s eyes filled with tears again and she let them fall unselfconsciously. “So all we have is this guy’s word for it.”

“The man said he ‘won’t be coming around anymore.’ His meaning was very clear.”

She nodded.

“You don’t believe it,” Neal said.

She shook her head. “I do. I think I do. I’ve been an FBI agent’s wife for a long time, Neal, it instills a certain level of realism in a person.” 

He took her hand and held it in both of his, squeezing it to give her strength, though he thought he probably got as much out of her as she got from him. That she had to be this candid – face this scenario every time her husband left the house for work – changed something inside him. It opened up such a fierce feeling of protectiveness for her that he almost couldn’t breathe from it. 

“But there’s still a part of me that has to hope that it’s not true,” she went on after a minute. “Until I have him back, until they find him, I can’t really believe it. Do you know what I mean?”

Of course he did. When Kate died, he held on to a similar hope that she’d somehow managed to escape the explosion, that she was off somewhere lying low. Until her remains were recovered, it was the only thing that kept him going. 

“I know he’s out there somewhere, Neal, he is. If he were dead, I think I’d feel it, I’d know it in my bones. Please tell me you understand that.”

“More than you think,” he said. “And if it helps, I’ll believe it too.”

\----

**Late November**

Rebecca put the final crimp into the last of the apple pies and began brushing the top crust with an egg wash. Her back door slammed open as Anthony entered the mudroom to deposit the last of the gardening tools.

“That you?” she called out to him, letting him know he was invited to come into the house proper. Since taking him in, Anthony had proven to be the ultimate boarder; since he didn’t have any money to pay her rent, he made it up with odd jobs around the old fixer-upper she’d bought several years back and failed to fix up. He respected her privacy at all times, never entering the house without an invitation, even on blustery late-November days like this when he was in and out doing yard work.

“Yeah,” he called back.

“Come on in and get some apple cider,” she said, and he soon joined her in the large kitchen. She pulled the jug of cider out of the fridge and poured him a large glass, then went back to putting the finishing touches on the pie, cutting vents and sprinkling it with sparkly sanding sugar.

“Smells great in here,” he said appreciatively after draining half the glass.

“Thanks. These two will be the last of it.” She removed two pumpkin pies from the oven and set them on racks to cool, then shoved the apple ones inside and shut the door.

He looked around at the half dozen pies she’d already made that day. “Just how many people are these meant to feed?”

She did some mental calculations. “Twenty-five this year, I think. Yeah, something like that. Sure I can’t talk you into coming to my mom’s for Thanksgiving dinner? She makes the best gravy.” She knew what his answer would be, but she had to ask again anyway; she didn’t like the idea of him all alone in the tiny apartment above her garage.

“Thank you, but you know I can’t. What is your family going to say when you show up with the complete stranger you literally picked up on the side of a road? And who is living in your house.”

“Garage,” she corrected.

“Fine, garage. And who doesn’t know his own name from Adam. What would they say?”

“If you’re an Eagles fan, they’d say pull up a chair.”

He gave her a look. “And what if I’m a Giants fan?”

“Well, then even _I_ wouldn’t be invited back.”

“There you go – case closed. Look, I’ll be perfectly fine here, and it’s only for one day. I wanted to get started re-grouting your master bath anyway, so it’s a perfect excuse.”

“You’re too good, Anthony, really.”

“As far as we know now, anyway,” he kidded, finishing off his cider.

Later that night, Rebecca whipped up a quick soup and warmed up some rolls and took them up to Anthony’s apartment for his dinner. She usually made enough for them both, and he occasionally joined her, but he was so very careful to leave her with her privacy, and it could get frustrating. With his long legs, wide shoulders and kind, brown eyes, he was exactly the opposite of her type, and she found him extremely appealing. But he showed no interest in her, and she wasn’t inclined to push it and make him feel uncomfortable.

When she knocked at his door, she noticed the flickering of the television inside the darkened apartment and peeked in through the window. He had fallen asleep in the big easy chair again, legs stretched out in front of him. The TV illuminated his face, which was surprisingly expressive, leading her to suspect he was having another of his dreams again. She knew he had them very often, because on those occasions when she’d talked him into dining with her in her home, he’d fallen asleep on her couch and been awakened by them. Other than the fact that he’d been having them, he never shared their subject matter with her, and she respected his privacy and didn’t ask. The hospital’s neurologist assured her that it was a natural thing to expect for someone with retrograde amnesia, that it was his subconscious mind’s way of trying to remind him of who he was.

She dithered on the doorstep, torn between delivering him the food and letting him sleep. She decided to split the difference and let herself in, hoping she’d be quiet enough to drop the food off with a note and sneak back out again. She almost succeeded.

As she was tiptoeing to the door to leave, her foot snagged the edge of the frayed rug in the hall and she tripped. She didn’t fall, but the noise was enough to disturb him. He woke with a sharp intake of breath, as if he’d been shocked, and looked around the place with an expression of panic on his face.”What’s that?” he asked, but he seemed confused momentarily. He flicked on the light beside the chair. “Oh, Rebecca, it’s you,” he said calmly, and sniffed. She looked closer at him and noticed there were tears in his eyes.

“I’m sorry, I wanted to drop off some dinner for you. It’s on the stove. Are you all right?” She took a step back into the living room, then another. He looked so sad, and she didn’t like to see him that way.

“I’m fine. Good. I had another one of those dreams.”

“It must have been pretty upsetting.”

“No, not really. But…” he sighed and got up, went to the kitchen and grabbed a beer from the fridge. He gestured at her to see if she wanted one and she nodded. He uncapped it and handed it to her, grabbed another for himself. “I dream about a woman,” he said quietly, his words halting, reluctant to burden her with this, but clearly needing to share. “She knows me, but I don’t remember her. She talks to me as if we are very intimate. She tells me she misses me and that she needs me.”

“Oh? What’s she like?”

“She’s petite, like you. She’s got long, dark hair, and she’s warm and soft and…” He shook his head sheepishly. “I’m sorry, you don’t want to hear about this.”

“I do, Anthony. Really – she has to be important if you keep dreaming about her. Tell me more.”

He let out a deep breath, but didn’t look at her, instead playing with the label on the beer bottle with a thumbnail. “I can never see her face – it’s always obscured in some way. But when I dream about her, I feel loved, just…really loved. I don’t know, maybe she’s my mother or something.”

 _Or something,_ Rebecca thought, feeling a little disappointed. A man didn’t dream about his mother like this.

He went on, staring at the floor as he remembered, “Just now, she was about to say my name. That’s never happened before. She was about to say my name.” He looked up at her, and there were fresh tears in his eyes.

“And I woke you. God, Anthony, I’m a prize idiot. I am so sorry.”

He took a step toward her, a hand held out. “Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault, how would you know?”

“Doesn’t make me feel any less schmucky. But you know, this is your brain processing your memories for you, I think. Maybe you’ll remember when you’re ready or something.”

“Or something.”

“Come on, let me get you some of that soup. It’s corn chowder.”

“Mmmm…maybe my favorite,” he joked, and gave her a big smile.

xxXXxxXXxxXXxx

Elizabeth dreamt of her wedding day. She didn’t do it often, but when she did, she found herself recalling small details that evaded her broader memories of that biggest day in her life. Things like conversations with rarely-seen cousins and the delicious scent of the strip steak that was her entrée, but that she never actually got to take a single bite of.

Tonight, she dreamt of a time, late into the party, when she and Peter were making a second circuit of the room, this time separately, to the tables of their respective families. Every time she caught a glimpse of Peter out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that he was staring at her. He had a curious, thoughtful expression on his face that, when she caught his eye, opened up into a big, happy grin.

When their course around the room brought them nearer to each other, she poked him in the shoulder and chided, “You know, it isn’t polite to stare.”

“You’re right, but you’ve never been more beautiful than you are tonight, and I’m trying to store it all up in my memory.”

“We’ll have plenty of pictures,” she reminded him; their photographer had insisted on taking each set of poses in color and black and white, which doubled the time spent posing, much to Peter’s chagrin.

He shook his head and smiled. “It’s not the same as live and in person. Even video isn’t. It won’t capture the life in your eyes, or the way you shut your eyes when you’re talking to your Great Aunt Maisie.”

“Well, if she’d only put in her hearing aids!”

“Pictures aren’t _you_. I want to be able to store it all up in here.” He tapped the side of his head with a forefinger.

“Aww,” she purred, and kissed him. “My husband says the nicest things.”

“He does?”

“I wonder if he knows how lucky he’s going to get later tonight?”

He gathered her up in his arms. “Really? I’ll be sure to let him know when I see him.”

“You do that.”

When she woke, she had a smile on her face for a moment at that happy memory, but when the reality her life had become dawned on her, the sorrow that crashed down was almost crippling. She got up abruptly from her bed, as if she could escape it, and grabbed up her robe. She made a beeline for the stairs, Satchmo at her heels, and went down to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

By the time the kettle boiled, she was crying, and before she could react to go and turn off the stove, someone else had already done it for her.

It was Neal.

Since Peter’s disappearance – and, according to the FBI, presumed death – his partner had become a permanent fixture in her life. He hadn’t left her side for two weeks after the news had broken, sitting up with her until late – and often all night – listening to her stories about their life and history, sharing his own memories of his life with Kate, and holding on to her when her grief threatened to break her in half.

Since then, he never let a day go by without calling to check in on her at least twice, and she took comfort in his availability to her, and in his understanding. He’d honored his promise to keep believing that Peter was still alive, going so far as to recruit Moz to run a parallel investigation into the Horvath family’s business that the FBI wouldn’t have sanctioned, using their network of contacts to gather information and background, in an effort to suss out what had happened to her husband.

Despite uncovering evidence of a broader network than the FBI suspected, they had turned up almost nothing. It became clear that the only two people who knew what happened to Peter were him and Mick Vladic, and neither one was talking.

Neal wordlessly got down two mugs from the cupboard and then fetched the tea from another. He knew her routine so well by now, that he automatically poured her chamomile while steeping some green tea for himself. He added a teaspoon of honey to hers and handed her the steaming mug without saying a word.

“Have I thanked you yet for staying with me?” she asked, drying her eyes on the sleeve of her robe.

“You may have mentioned it,” he said. In fact, she’d drunk a little too much white wine at dinner the night before, and thanked him about once every five minutes at one point. “Besides, I have to get up in an hour to brine the turkey anyway.”

She smiled sadly. He knew instinctively that she wouldn’t want to be alone on a holiday, and had gone forward with an entire plan for Thanksgiving, inviting just a few very close friends and taking care of nearly everything.

“Peter’s going to be so proud of you when he comes home.”

“Or he’ll kick my ass for making time with his wife,” Neal pointed out.

“Oh, he wouldn’t.”

“No, he’d just threaten to send me back to prison.”

“Ha! You’re probably right.”

“The holidays are the hardest, Elizabeth,” he said, his voice serious, wavering.

She could tell he was thinking about Kate – this whole situation had served only to remind him of that horrible time in his life. Her eyes filled with tears again, but this time, not for her husband. She reached across the kitchen island and covered Neal’s hand with hers. “It’ll be easier with such good friends.”

\----

Moz showed up for Thanksgiving dinner first, a couple of pies from The Greatest Cake under his arm. He was soon followed by Diana and Christy, and El’s own friends Dana and John Mitchell. Neal worked hard to keep the mood light for Elizabeth’s sake, and everyone else picked up on the vibe. With Moz on hand, this wasn’t hard, as he began to tell stories from his Detroit days that had everyone in the room, including Diana, in stitches.

After dinner, El and Christy insisted on doing the dishes, while the Mitchells had to leave early to head to her parents in Queens for dessert. Neal, Diana and Moz sat in the living room watching football with the sound off and discussing the Horvath case.

“According to the AUSA on the case, indictments on the Horvath family are supposed to start coming down next week,” Diana said, her voice pitched low so that the women in the kitchen couldn’t hear. She didn’t want to risk upsetting Elizabeth or Christy, who tended to get tense now whenever talk turned to casework, particularly since Peter’s disappearance.

“Well, at least there’re _some_ development in this case,” Moz said. He too had been frustrated on his own investigation’s lack of recent progress.

“Don’t sell yourself short, Moz. That ‘anonymous tip’ we got a couple weeks back has opened up another investigation into a Medicaid fraud ring up in Hartford that’ll further cripple the Horvaths. Peter’s evidence has practically decimated the organization.”

“I’m finding it hard to care. We’re no closer to finding out what happened to Peter,” Neal said.

“And between you and me, the OC guys haven’t been able to get anything to stick to the old man or Mick Vladic,” Diana added. “Anyone who’s flipped has refused to implicate them, and none of the existing evidence is enough.”

“I hate the idea of that guy running around free,” Neal said viciously. He was rubbing the palm of his left hand with the thumb of his right.

“Just keep it in your pants, Neal,” said Diana. “We’ll do this by the book. It’s how Peter would want us to do it.”

“So you keep reminding me. It’s the only thing keeping me from bashing the guy’s head in.”

“Neal, I swear to God, if you go after this guy half-cocked –“ Diana began to say when El came through from the kitchen.

The three of them looked up at her as if a conspiracy had been discovered, and she was magnanimous enough to pretend she didn’t know what they were talking about. “Anyone want decaf?” she asked evenly, and they all shook their heads no. She returned to the kitchen, and they all bent their heads together again.

“Do you need more reason than _that_ to play this straight?” Diana asked Neal. “She needs you for more than just your cooking skills.”

Neal suddenly couldn’t look Diana in the eyes. There was no denying that he and Elizabeth had gotten closer since Peter’s disappearance. She was now as close a friend to him as Peter had ever been, and he knew she relied on him both to keep her spirits up as well as informed on the case. But he relied on her too; the whole situation had done more than dredge up dark memories of the days just after Kate’s death, it had also reminded him of the support that Peter had offered to him then, even when he’d been sent back to prison. He owed Peter so much, not the least of which was whatever comfort his grieving wife needed now. No, he would not hurt Elizabeth further by acting rashly against Vladic.

As if to punctuate his thoughts, Satchmo ambled over and sat in front of him with a big doggy grin on his face, eyeing the front door suggestively.

“Someone else who needs you,” Moz said, nodding at the dog.

“Only because I know where the treats are kept.”

\----

Later that night, when Neal came back from walking Moz to the subway with Satchmo, he found Elizabeth standing in front of the fireplace, staring at the framed wedding photo she kept there of herself and Peter. When she looked over as he came through the front door, he saw she had tears in her eyes and his heart broke for her all over again. “Hey,” he said, his voice gentle as he bent over to detach Satch’s leash, then took off his coat.

“I dreamed about our wedding last night,” she told him.

He crossed the room and put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth.”

“You were right – the holidays are hard without him here.” She replaced the picture on the mantle and sat down on the couch. “So, what did Diana, you and Moz have to talk about? How’s the case going?”

Neal knew she must’ve suspected that was the topic of his earlier conversation, but he still wanted to protect her from it. It wasn’t that he didn’t think she could handle it, because he knew she could. It was that he didn’t want her to have to. “The grand jury is going to start handing down indictments this week,” he said quietly and sat in the arm chair next to the hearth. “A lot of high-ranking members of the Horvath organization are probably going away for a very long time.”

“Except the man who last saw Peter alive,” she added, her eyes on his unwavering.

Again, he was not surprised she would intuit this fact. “Correct.”

“How can that be in a just world?”

Neal shook his head to indicate he didn’t know, but smiled. “ _That_ has been the subject of many a conversation between Peter and I – the relative merits of justice vs. revenge.”

“I can guess which side you come down on.”

“What about you?”

She took a minute to consider her answer. “It’s a good thing I don’t carry a gun.”

Neal nodded, and this time he was surprised at her reaction. For some reason, he’d expected the Burkes to be of one mind on this topic.

“Does that shock you? My husband has never had to feel the way I do right now. The way you do about Kate’s murder. He’s made the choice to live in a black and white world, and he thrives there. I never had to.”

“I never want to.”

“I suppose that’s the difference between you both, then. I never thought it would come down to it for me. How naïve is that?”

“Not naïve, Elizabeth. Normal. Most people don’t ever have to face it at all.”

“What made them so lucky?”

xxXXxxXXxxXXxx

**Mid-December**

Anthony walked down the long driveway toward his garage apartment, his collar turned up against the wind. Rebecca had helped him get a job as a stockroom clerk in a men’s shop downtown that needed holiday help, and it was within walking distance of her house. He paused to find his keys at the foot of the stairs that led up to his apartment when he heard a crash in her kitchen. Alarmed, he rushed over to her back door, peered in through her kitchen windows.

He saw Rebecca inside with a man. She was leaning back against her kitchen table, one hand bracing herself, the other clutching at the hoodie he wore, and his mouth was on her jaw. At first glance, it appeared they were kissing passionately, but Anthony saw that she was actually struggling to push the man away from her, that the expression in her eyes was not at all one of passion, but of anger tinged with fear. The man had a fistful of her hair in his right hand and he was trying to hold on to the squirming woman with his other hand around her waist.

Acting fast, Anthony burst through the door, crossed the kitchen in two strides and pulled the man off of Rebecca. “Get off her!” he said, taking a handful of the man’s jacket and pushing him back into the wall so forcefully his head bounced off of it.

“Hey!” the man said, trying to fight back, but Anthony's superior size gave him a distinct advantage. He pulled the man toward him, spun him and then shoved him against the wall again, face first, instinctively grabbing the man’s wrist and twisting his arm behind his back, kicking his legs apart and pinioning him to the wall with his other forearm against his shoulders.

“Anthony!” Rebecca shouted with alarm and surprise, and he could feel her small hands pulling at his coat.

“Call the cops.”

“I can’t. Please let him go.” He looked at her like she was insane. She pulled on his arm with both hands. “Please, Anthony. Let him go.”

Reluctantly, Anthony did as she asked, taking a step back. The man – considerably shorter than Anthony, but lean and muscular, with a pinched face – turned and fixed him with an angry glare.

“You wanna tell me what’s going on?” Anthony asked her. “He was clearly attacking you.”

“I’m her husband, that’s what’s going on!”

“What?”

“Ex-husband,” Rebecca corrected, “and you were just leaving.”

“Becks,” he began, but she cut him off.

“Get out of my sight, Andy, and don’t come here again, or next time I _will_ call the cops.”

With a glare at both of them, Andy stomped out of the house, slamming the kitchen door behind him.

Rebecca crossed to the pantry door and pulled it open. She removed a dusty bottle of bourbon from it, found a glass in the drainboard and poured herself two fingers with shaking hands. Anthony had never seen her drink a drop before. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” she said to him, her voice tight, whether from the whiskey or the violence, Anthony couldn’t tell.

Anthony noticed the patch of reddened skin on the left side of her face and realized Andy must have hit her. “I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner.” He went to the fridge and pulled a bag of frozen peas out of the freezer for her, held it to her face gently. As she reached up to take it, he noticed that she was shaking all over. Instinctively, he took her into his arms, hoping to calm her.

As he held on to her, he realized with surprise that the feeling of a woman in his arms was a familiar thing – some sort of muscle memory he hadn’t thought about before. And though he had no real memories of the mystery woman from his dreams, he suspected she must be important – he thought he might have held her as he now held Rebecca. He looked down at her and she was looking up at him, her eyes large, questioning. Suddenly self-conscious, he dropped his arms and stepped away from her.

“I’m sorry, that was – that was inappropriate.”

She was nearly as flustered as he was. “No, no. I think I needed it.”

“You were really married to that guy?”

“One of the biggest mistakes of my life. We were young, and I wanted nothing more than to piss my father off. Andy was trouble from the start, only I didn’t see it. Not until the cops were busting down our door and arresting him for armed robbery down in Philly. His getting busted probably saved me.”

“And now he’s back?”

“He’s been on parole a little over a year, but how long he’s in town, and for what, I have no idea. I don’t think I want to. Whatever it is can’t be good.”

“I still think we should call the police, Rebecca. He hurt you.”

She reached out a hand and grasped his wrist. “Thank you. If he shows up again, I will. I promise. But for now, I don’t want to screw him up with his parole officer.”

Anthony gave her an uneasy look. As often happened, he had a feeling somewhere in his gut that Andy was trouble. He gave off a vibe or something – Anthony couldn’t put a finger on why exactly, but he just knew the guy was wrong. He resolved to keep a closer eye on Rebecca while she was at home, and keep his eyes peeled if her ex showed up anywhere nearby.

\----

A week later, Anthony's boss Gene – a short, bald gentleman with thick, dark-framed glasses that reminded him of someone he thought he knew – asked Anthony to take the day’s deposits to the bank. He was standing in front of one of the tellers when two men wearing dark hoodies entered, taking up positions at the exits. They carefully kept their faces hidden, he noticed, and yet again, that uncomfortable, yawning feeling in his gut made Anthony immediately suspicious of them. Subconsciously, without thinking, he widened his stance, standing more upright with his feet planted, ready to jump into action in case he needed to.

He needed to.

A third man entered and they all went into motion, pulling the blinds on the picture windows of the bank and locking the doors. The man – Anthony presumed he was their leader – locked the main doors, pulled a handgun from his waistband and shot a bullet into the ceiling. “Listen up!” he shouted. “This is a robbery. Nobody move!”

Anthony placed his hands on the counter in front of him so that they’d know he was being cooperative as the entire scene played out like some sort of bad movie. The bank branch was a small one, and so was sparsely staffed by a manager, two tellers, a loan officer and a security guard that looked like he was still a teenager. It was late afternoon, so Anthony was the only customer – he thanked God that he’d let the mother with two small children precede him in line. He and the bank’s staff were herded to a waiting area off the lobby while the leader and one of the men took the bank’s manager off to the vault. He noticed the gunman watching over them was wearing a transparent Halloween mask, as were the other two.

“Nobody move, and you won’t get hurt,” the man said as he covered the hostages with what Anthony recognized as a 9mm semi-automatic handgun. He also noticed the security kid beginning to get twitchy.

“Psst!” Anthony hissed, and the kid looked over at him. Anthony shook his head slowly, hoping to talk him out of what he seemed intent on doing. Aside from the fact the guard was clearly nervous and unprepared to deal with the situation, Anthony knew instinctively that if he drew on the gunman, there would be shots fired, and people would get hurt or killed. He moved toward the kid, hoping to block him with his own body, but the bank robber noticed.

“I said, nobody move,” the man moved over to Anthony and jammed his gun painfully into his ribs. Anthony winced, kept his hands in the air. Saw the security guard once again move his hand towards the gun at his hip, and acted without another thought.

Moving so quickly many of the others would later tell police they hadn’t known it was happening, Anthony planted his right foot and pivoted, bringing his right elbow up to knock the man’s gun arm away while grasping his wrist with his left hand. Using his own momentum, Anthony brought his right forearm up, took a step forward and jammed his elbow into the gunman’s throat. He then grabbed the man’s shoulder with his right hand, brought his knee up and rained a quick series of blows to his torso. As the gunman fell to the floor, stunned, Anthony twisted his left hand, taking the gun away and holding it on the man.

Anthony loomed over the gunman, holding the gun steady with both hands as he glanced back at the bank’s staff. “You!” he said, pointing at the security guard with his chin. “Get these people to safety and call the police.” The kid didn’t have to be told twice. “And you,” Anthony said to the erstwhile robber, who lay clutching his ribs on the floor. “You’re coming with me.”

Anthony pulled the man to his feet by his jacket, spun him and clutched at the neck of his shirt, the gun held to his head. “Not a sound or I blow your head off,” he said. “Move!”

He led the man back to where his two partners had taken the bank manager. The vault was down a long hallway at the back of the building. They paused half a dozen feet outside the door, where Anthony could hear the men inside forcing the manager to load cash into the duffel bags they had brought.

“Call one of your buddies,” Anthony hissed into the gunman’s ear, shaking him bodily and pressing the gun firmly against his ear to remind him who was in charge. “Just one.”

“Hey, Frank, can you come out here?” he said. “Uh – I need your help.”

“Good job,” Anthony whispered and clocked the man behind his ear with the butt of the gun. He went down without another sound, unconscious.

The man named Frank called out from within the bank vault, “Did you just use my real name, you freaking moron?” Anthony didn’t hear any footsteps, and he winced when he realized he didn’t have his decoy with him anymore. Shrugging, he made a mumbled “I don’t know” noise in the back of his throat. Then he heard footsteps.

Shoving the gun into the waistband of his jeans, Anthony positioned himself beside the door. When “Frank” emerged, he exploded into action, grabbing him by his forearm and pulling him into the hall. Frank went down more easily than his moronic partner, and Anthony risked a peek into the vault room.

The third man, the one who Anthony assumed earlier was the leader, was watching as the bank manager finished filling a duffel bag with cash. He had his back to him, and had laid his gun down on the table, though his hand hovered nearby. Anthony eased into the room behind him, gun held high, and crossed the space between them in three silent strides. Both the bank robber and the manager looked up in shock when he said, “Freeze! Keep your hands where I can see them,” and held the gun to the back of his neck.

As if he knew the drill, the man offered no further resistance, raising his hands to his head in a submissive gesture. “You,” Peter said to the manager. “Take that gun and hold it on him.”

“Um, OK,” the man said, picking it up and clicking off the safety before training it on the robber.

Anthony was relieved the man could handle a firearm. “You see that?” he said to the bank robber, pressing his own gun into the man’s neck again. “It seems Mr. Reynolds over there knows his way around a weapon. I suggest you do as he says.”

Reynolds took a step closer. Seeing he had it under control, Anthony went into the hall and dragged the other two still-unconscious men into the vault. He turned as he heard the far-off sound of approaching sirens. Reynolds the bank manager was removing the masks of the robbers when he turned back around, and Anthony was somehow not surprised to see that the leader was Rebecca's ex, Andy.

“You!” each man said in unison.

They said nothing more; as Anthony stared at him placidly, Andy stared daggers at him, and Anthony knew he’d kill him if he got another chance.

The police sirens got closer. “There a back entrance to this place?” Anthony asked Reynolds.

“Yeah, further down the hall. Why?”

“You got this, right? I mean, one of these guys moves, and…”

“I have no problem putting a bullet in him, trust me. But where are you going?”

“It’s complicated,” Anthony said, and backed out of the room.

The bank’s back entrance opened on a wide alley that had a few parking spots for the staff. Anthony paused outside the door, wiped his prints off the gun he still held, left it on the hood of the nearest car and took off just as the cops arrived.

xxXXxxXXxxXXxx

_“Breaking news this hour out of Ephrata, Lancaster County,”_ the newsman said into the camera. _”Police are looking for this man, who they say broke up an armed bank robbery yesterday afternoon.”_ Black and white surveillance footage from the robbery showed a man assaulting the gunman who held a gun to his back. _“The man left the scene before the police arrived, but witnesses report he single-handedly disarmed and subdued three armed suspects before leaving through a back entrance.”_

The scene showed the exterior of the bank, then focused on a young security guard. _“He was just a customer, you know? And these guys, they came in with guns? And this guy? He went all Ninja and stuff? And he took the one guy out? And then he, uh, he went to the back? I didn’t see any more, cuz I was leading Mrs. Feldman and them out of the building? But it was awesome!”_

The scene showed a still picture taken from the surveillance of a tall man in his forties in the split second his face fully faced the camera.

 _“Police would like to question the man in the incident, and encourage him to come forward. If anyone has information relating to the case, they are encouraged to call the Ephrata police department,”_ the news man finished.

“You were right, Bobby, that is a very interesting clip,” Mick Vladic said as he shut the screen on the laptop on his desk.

“Looks like your buddy Wayne Cotter has turned up over in Pennsy,” Bobby said to his boss.

Mick clenched his right fist so hard several knuckles cracked. He brought it to his face and tapped at his jaw. “How long ago was this robbery?”

“Two days.”

“Gas up my car. I need to run an errand.”

\----

“Hello?” Neal said blearily into his phone. It was still dark out – he didn’t want to know what time it was. He heard heavy breathing coming from the other end, squinted at the lit up display to see who it was, and held the phone back to his ear. “El?”

Her breath hitched and he realized she was crying. “Can you come?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. 

“I’ll be there in half an hour.”

He borrowed June’s Jag and made it in just over twenty minutes and let himself into the Burke house with the keys Elizabeth had had made for him weeks before. He found her in the kitchen, sitting on the floor in the corner against the cabinets, her phone still clutched to her chest. Her face was tear-stained, but she had stopped crying. 

“What happened?”

“I dreamt he was dead.” Her voice was higher pitched than usual, hollow.

A wave of heat engulfed Neal at her words and his hand began to shake. He shoved it and the keys he held into his pocket and went to kneel on the floor in front of her. “He’s not.”

“I don’t know anymore.”

“Yes, you do.” She shook her head, and he bent forward and gathered her into his arms, sat beside her and held her. She began to cry again at his touch, and he held on to her, his own eyes filling with tears to see her pain, to know he could do nothing to alleviate it. “He’s out there,” he said finally, holding her hand. “You know he is.”

“Not today, I don’t.”

Neal didn’t have an answer. He sat with his arm around her shoulders, rubbing her arm and making reassuring noises until the sun began to rise over the patio and brighten up the room. “How about some breakfast?” 

He got up and helped her to her own feet, led her over to a stool beside the kitchen’s island and installed her into it. He then made a pot of coffee and some cinnamon toast for her, watching like a hawk until she began to eat. Then he went to pour himself a bowl of cereal. He noticed she was watching his every movement. “What?”

“What would I do without you?” she said finally. 

“Come on.”

“Honestly, Neal. I don’t think I’d have gotten through the last couple of months without you. You’ve been here through my darkest days, and you pick me up, dust me off, and get me going again. Every time. Why?”

He was momentarily at a loss for words. He’d never given any thought to his actions, never considered his motivation; he had simply done what needed to be done. And more importantly, what Peter would have done – had already done – for him. “Well, you know why. I love you.”

Elizabeth blinked and Neal gave her a look. “Not _that_ way. You’re like my family. I’d do anything for you. Does that surprise you?”

She paused before she answered, giving it serious thought. “No,” she said finally. “No, it doesn’t. You’re a good friend, Neal. I love you, too.”

He smiled shyly and went looking for some soy milk when his cell phone buzzed in his pocket about a half dozen times in quick succession. Finally, it rang and he had to answer it. It was Moz. 

“Where are you?” he asked without preamble.

Neal walked to the dining room, not wanting Elizabeth to overhear. “I’m at Elizabeth’s. She had a bad night.”

“Well, her day’s about to get better. Look at the video I just emailed to you and call me right back.”

Moz rang off, and Neal fired up the email app on his phone. He watched less than five seconds of the footage on the bank robbery in Lancaster County before he knew that the mystery man had to be Peter Burke. “Elizabeth!” he shouted, running back to the kitchen. “Take a look at this!”

\----

“What does it all mean?” Elizabeth asked.

Moz glanced at her but didn’t answer.

“Why would he be gone for so long and not call me? Has he been there this whole time? If not, who’s had him? Did Neal find anything else out? Did the police in Ephrata know anything? _What does it all mean?_ ”

Still Moz gave no reaction.

Moz and Elizabeth were in the Taurus, heading West on I-78 because there was no way she could wait back in Brooklyn for news. As in everything, Moz was a careful and meticulous driver, not going a single mile above the posted speed limit, and diligently leaving the proscribed amount of space in front of the car as he drove. And it was driving Elizabeth mad. 

Neal and Diana had left for Pennsylvania as soon as possible, in a government helicopter sanctioned by Hughes, to look into the strange appearance of a man who so strongly resembled his missing and presumed-dead agent. With the case against the Horvath family nowhere near wrapped up, there was no mistaking what their reaction would be to learning that a man who knew the ins and outs of their operations - a man they’d attempted to murder - might still be alive. The Organized Crime agents and AUSA had very carefully kept the fact that “Wayne Cotter” had been an undercover agent out of the equation, but it didn’t mean Peter was in any less danger. 

If the man in Ephrata was, in fact, Peter.

The picture form the surveillance tape was grainy, but Elizabeth knew in her bones that it was. It had to be. How she would cope if it wasn’t was something she could not even consider. 

But despite her own certainty, she was still anxious, and that anxiety manifested itself as impatience with the man who had so kindly offered to drive her. 

“Can’t you go any faster? I wish you’d let me drive.”

“Slow and steady wins the race,” Moz said, not taking his eyes off the road.

“Whatever, Aesop,” El muttered and watched the bleak, early-Winter landscape of Northern NJ whizz past the car way too slowly.

\----

“Welcome to freaking Mayberry,” Diana muttered as she pulled their rental car into a parking spot. 

Neal looked at the neatly landscaped brick building that housed the Ephrata police department and found he couldn’t share her disparagement of the place. The town was, in fact, completely charming, its downtown area decked out for Christmas and Hanukkah, its streets bustling with shoppers and business people going about their lives. While it wasn’t exactly his speed, he admitted to himself that he couldn’t have picked a better place to lie low himself, and felt a momentary buzz of pride in Peter that he’d found such a place. Maybe he was rubbing off on his partner. 

He followed in Diana’s wake as she breezed through the reception area to the desk sergeant and flashed her badge. “Agent Berrigan, FBI. May I speak with your Chief, please?”

Twenty minutes later, they were ushered into a small conference room and made to wait an additional fifteen while the Police Chief finished a meeting with the Mayor on community outreach measures, or so the department administrative assistant explained. By the time the man joined them, Neal had fashioned a tiny origami menagerie out of some parking summons he’d purloined from a desk somewhere, and Diana was pacing the room like a caged tigress. 

“Good morning, Agent Berrigan,” Chief Ed Bryce greeted Neal cheerfully as he entered the room. “I’m sorry to make you wait so long, but my morning has been hella-busy!”

“I can imagine,” Diana said dryly. “I’m Agent Berrigan, by the way. This is Neal Caffrey.”

Chief Bryce looked embarrassed and extended a hand to her by way of apology. She regarded it carefully before swallowing her pride and taking it. 

“So what brings you all the way out here from New York? We don’t get much call for federal business, so when they told me you were here, I thought they were pulling my leg.”

Neal found himself liking the police Chief despite the delay. He was medium height, with strawberry blonde hair and a blast of freckles across his face. He was powerfully built, with softer edges brought on by middle age, and wore a tan uniform. His smile was friendly, his demeanor pleasant, and Neal was instantly reminded of Winnie the Pooh. And he could feel the contempt for him pouring off of Diana like some sort of pheromone, so he decided he ought to jump in before she decided to physically take the man’s head off or worse.

“Not pulling your leg, not in any way,” he interjected quickly as Diana opened her mouth. “We’re here because of this man.” He pulled out a printout of a screen capture from the bank’s surveillance footage. 

Chief Bryce’s face turned serious when he recognized it. “Oh, that. That fellow’s caused us quite a big headache! Not that I’m not grateful that he stopped an armed robbery, mind you, but we can’t have vigilantes roaming the streets. You know, I was just telling my Addie the other day about how dangerous this kind of thing can be. ‘Addie,’ I said…”

“Have you been able to find him?” Neal interrupted.

“Well, no. It was such a lot of bother dealing with the robbers, you see. And then that news crew showed up, and well, we were kind of hoping that might encourage him to come in on his own. It’s not as if we didn’t have enough witnesses, you know? It’s just been so busy.”

Neal smiled winningly. “I know exactly what you mean. All that paperwork. But listen, this man closely resembles a colleague of ours. A missing agent named Peter Burke.”

“He does?” Bryce took the printout and peered more closely at it.

“Yes. And if it is him, we’d sure like to find him, to put his family’s mind at ease. You understand that, don’t you? I’m sure Addie would be worried sick if you’d been missing for over two months.”

“Oh, she’d be beside herself!”

“I’m sure she would. And you don’t want Agent Burke's wife to worry any more than she has to, do you, Chief Bryce?”

Neal noticed the other man’s eyes had tears in them. “I sure don’t, Mr. Caffrey. But you know, just last night, a man claiming to be that man’s brother showed up here, said he’d been missing for over a year. He called him Wayne.”

“What?” Diana said, grasping the man’s arm hard enough to make him wince. 

“He was very tall, blonde hair, expensive suit. Kind of a rough looking character. He said the man in the bank was his brother and an Iraqi war vet, and he wasn’t right in the head. Wanted to get him home to their mother as soon as possible.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“Same thing I told you. He sure seemed worried, so I told him where the bank was. He said he hoped he’d be able to pick up a trail. I suggested he start with the bank’s manager.”

“Shit,” Neal muttered, his anxiety level ratcheting up. The man the Chief had described was Mick Vladic, and he had almost a full day’s head start on them. “Diana, we’ve got to go.”

\----

“I don’t know his name,” the teller was saying to Diana, “but he came in with the deposit for Gene Fratto’s, so I think he must work over there.”

“Gene Fratto?”

“It’s a menswear store just up the road. He’s a real nice guy, whoever he is. He comes in every couple of days lately, though I haven’t really seen him since the robbery. There sure are a lot of people here who’d like to thank him. If you find him, you should let him know that.”

“I will. Thanks.”

xxXXxxXXxxXXxx

Anthony signed the delivery manifest with his boss’s name and waved the driver off. Then he turned and looked at the mountain of boxes waiting on the loading bay for him to open, inventory and stow away, and sighed – he had a long day ahead of him.

He was stacking boxes of shirts when James, one of the sales associates, caught his eye from the doorway and he walked over.

“Hey,” Anthony said him with a smile, shaking the young man’s proffered hand. James had been convicted of check kiting a few years back, but Gene, the shop’s owner, had hired him anyway, to give the kid a second chance. Anthony had bonded immediately with James, had liked the young man’s intelligence and wit. James was always kidding with Anthony, trying to get him to wear some of the stylish clothes the store sold, but being in the stockroom was not a practical place for such finery, and Anthony thought he ought to save his wages for more practical things like rent and food. Anthony thought James must remind him of someone – someone in his past. They had long conversations during slow times in the shop, about music, art and travel that evoked feelings of familiarity for Anthony that he hoped would someday connect in his brain. 

But this morning, James did not greet him with his customary smile. He glanced nervously over his shoulder into the main shop, then up at Anthony; he put a hand on his arm and led him away from the door. “There’s someone out there looking for you,” James finally told him, after another minute of nervous glances over his shoulder.

“Me? Who?” Anthony moved back to the door, glanced through its porthole-like window out into the shop, ducking down when he thought the man might be looking his way. 

“Tall guy – he’s talking to Gene now. Asked me about you, I said I ain’t seen you around for days.”

“You _haven’t_ seen me around for days,” Anthony corrected him, “and thanks. Did he say why he wanted to find me?” 

“No, and I didn’t ask. But you don’t go breaking up bank heists and expect not to draw attention to yourself, my friend.” Anthony gave him a sharp look and James continued, “What, did you think that stunt wouldn’t get you noticed? It was all over the Philly news day before yesterday. You, my friend, are now famous.”

“Shit.”

“And whoever or whatever it is you’re running from – looks like it’s caught up to you.”

Anthony gave James another surprised look. He’d shared nothing about himself with James, not about his lack of identity or his suspicions that he was on the run from something or someone – but it shouldn’t have shocked him that the young ex-con had figured things out; James was extremely smart and perceptive.

“Anyway, Gene’s cool – he won’t give you away either. But if you ask me, that guy looks like bad news. You should lay low until his trail runs cold.”

Anthony nodded distractedly, and chanced another look through the window. James was right – the man talking with Gene had a lean, sharp look about him, with darting eyes that didn’t seem to miss a detail. Though Anthony didn’t know him, he was surprised to realize he recognized his type – dangerous, ruthless, capable of violence. He didn’t know why his brain would make such a deduction, but after the bank robbery, he no longer doubted these instincts he had increasingly begun to have. Something in his gut told him he was right, and when the man turned to leave, Anthony saw a bulge in his jacket, a bulge he immediately knew was a concealed weapon. Suddenly, he knew his next move.

“So, if you need somewhere to crash tonight, just let me know.” James was still talking. 

“Thanks, James,” Anthony answered, grabbing his coat and heading for the loading bay door. 

“Where you going?” James asked him.

“To find some answers,” Anthony replied, and hurried out the door to catch up with his visitor before he got too far.

\----

Anthony considered how lucky he was to be living in a small town, which meant that the man he was tailing wasn’t driving. He hadn’t thought to borrow James’ car when he’d taken off, or else his mission to find out who the man was and why he was looking for him wouldn’t have lasted very long.

He tailed him to the coffee shop on the corner where he sometimes bought a sandwich for his lunch, then to the gas station where Rebecca fueled her car. Anthony realized it wouldn’t be long before the man would find the trail that led to where he lived, and the thought filled him with dread. He never wanted any of the secrets of his past – whatever they were – to harm Rebecca in any way. She’d been so kind to him, had given him a home and a chance to get back on his feet. He needed to keep that safe – keep her safe – at all costs 

He ducked behind a UPS truck as the gas station attendant pointed up the road, clearly giving the man directions. He watched with growing panic as the man retraced his steps back into town; he followed as closely as he dared, ducking into a store’s doorway when the man got into a car and drove in the direction of Rebecca's house. 

“Aw, crap,” Anthony muttered and took off toward home at a run. 

Anthony spotted the man’s car parked three blocks away from the house, and slowed his pace to a jog. He circled the block to come up on the house from the rear, skirting the garage to arrive at the back door, which had been forced open. There were no sounds coming from inside, but he had no doubt the man was inside. Anthony creeped up the back stairs soundlessly and made his way through the kitchen; he could tell from the creaking floorboards overhead that the man was upstairs. He found him in the guest bedroom, searching through the closet. 

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” Anthony said, challenging the man.

The man looked at him, surprised. “I thought I was looking for you, Wayne. I didn’t expect you to come right to me.” 

Anthony didn’t answer. His eyes flicked to the handgun concealed in a shoulder holster under the man’s suit jacket. 

“You know, most guys I kill stay dead. But you – you’re like a bad penny or something.”

“Or maybe a guilty conscience,” Anthony suggested.

The man laughed. “Funny. You’re a funny guy. I always liked that about you. But you disappointed me, Wayne. I think you snitched to the Feds. Or maybe you are a Fed. Either way, a lot of trouble started happening after I met you, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence.”

Anthony shrugged, but his mind was racing. Clearly this man knew him before and was the reason for the current state his life was in. “You shot me,” he said, more thinking out loud than anything.

The man blinked, a _well, duh_ expression on his face.

“You shot me,” Anthony repeated, all the anger, fear and frustration of the last several weeks suddenly boiling over into a white hot fury he could not contain. With a quickness that surprised even himself, he charged the man, taking him down in a football tackle with a shoulder to his solar plexus that had the man gasping for air.

But Anthony barely noticed. He got up on his knees, raining blows on the man’s face until he scissored his legs and threw Anthony off of him. Anthony rolled away, came up in a crouch, then launched himself at the man once more before he had a chance to get his hand on the gun they both knew he had.

This time, the man was ready for it. He absorbed Anthony's attack, taking the brunt of it on his forearms. When Anthony fell back, he pressed his advantage, kicking, punching at him until he was forced back against a wall. They grappled then, their hands in each others’ clothing, and then the man reared his head back and delivered a head butt that had Anthony seeing stars. He was on the floor before he knew what was happening, the man sitting on top of him, the handgun in his fist. Anthony knew what was coming before it happened, but he didn’t have his wits about him as the man smashed the butt of the gun against his face once, twice, a third time. He was beginning to black out, there was nothing more for it, but then suddenly the man stopped; got to his feet and hauled Anthony to his.

They were both breathing heavily. Anthony spat blood into the man’s face, tried to bring his fist up once more, but the man shoved him against the wall and his head connected and he saw stars again. 

“You’re one tenacious mother, I’ll give you that, Wayne,” the man said. He pressed the gun to Anthony's temple and fisted his jacket. “I’m almost sorry to have to kill you again.”

Anthony registered the words but not their meaning quite yet. He shook his head to clear it. 

“Come on,” the man said, and yanked on Anthony's jacket. He propelled him out of the room and towards the stairs. Anthony knew where this was headed, some part of his brain screamed in protest, but he was too dazed from the blows he’d taken, and had no energy to stop it. There was a ringing in his ears which was all he could register as he let the man lead him out of the house to meet his fate.

xxXXxxXXxxXXxx

Neal watched, amazed, as Diana seemed determined to break all land speed records as she pushed the tiny Toyota they’d rented to its limits getting to the house the gas station attendant directed them to. When the young man had said that Peter’s “brother” had been looking for him too, they’d both shared a look and ran back to the car. They hadn’t exchanged a word since, so intent were they to get to the address the man had given them before it was too late – before Vladic got to Peter first.

Neal pointed at the car with New York plates parked several yards from the house and Diana brought the car to a screeching halt. She jumped out, went over and saw that no one was inside. “Vladic must still be here,” she concluded.

“What now?”

“Now, we move in. There’s no way we’re letting this guy get away. Whether this is Peter he’s after or some other, innocent man, the trail stops here. I’m sick of those OC guys and their wait-and-see case-building. It’s time to kick a little ass.”

Neal found himself nodding in agreement. 

“You ready?” 

Neal followed her toward the house. They had no way of knowing it, but her route took her the exact same way “Anthony's” had taken him earlier…a tactical move taught at the FBI Academy and drilled into their heads over and again. They approached the house from the rear, taking cover along the wall of the barn that seemed to serve as a garage, pausing to assess the situation, to see if there was any movement inside.

“What happens now?” Neal said to Diana, his voice low, tense. He had never been asked to take part in this kind of thing, and he didn’t want to mess up.

“I move in, you cover me in case I need it.”

“Cover you with what, a tarp? Kisses?”

She made an annoyed sound that Neal hoped was directed at herself and bent over to unstrap her secondary weapon from around her ankle. “You’d better be as good a shot as Peter says,” she warned him.

“I’m better,” he assured her, and they both dropped into a crouch as they prepared to move towards the house.

A movement from inside the enclosed back porch made them stop, ease back to the cover of the barn. The door opened and two men walked out, moving closely together and in sync with one another. Neal’s heart thrilled to see that the first man was, in fact, Peter. But his relief was short-lived; the second man, Mick Vladic, had a gun pressed against Peter’s neck, and he was forcing him along.

Neal saw immediately where this was headed and tapped Diana on the shoulder. He gestured to her his intentions, but she clearly didn’t understand. Her brows furrowed, she shook her head. He left. “Caffrey!” she hissed after him, but he was already gone.

On silent feet, he quickly made his way back to the edge of the property line, skirting the shrubs there while Vladic and Peter were facing the opposite way. He hoped Diana would deduce what he intended to do, and delay her next move by the seconds he would need to get to the front of the house and let himself in. He was at the door and had his lockpicks in his hands before he heard her shouted, “FBI! FREEZE!” 

The adrenaline pumping through Neal made his movements somehow surer, quicker. He had the door open in seconds, dashed through the house towards the kitchen. Through the screened porch, he saw the scene that had played out without him: Vladic with an arm around Peter’s neck, gun to his head; Diana squared off like a statue, her weapon pointed at Vladic, her grip unwavering. It was a Mexican standoff, with shouts being traded back and forth, and Neal had to be the one to break it.

“I’ll kill him, I swear!” Vladic was saying.

“And it’ll be the second to last thing you do,” she warned him. “Just before begging for your mama as I blow your sorry ass to hell.”

Neal actually found himself impressed by the venom in her words; he made a mental note to compliment her later. But now he had to act. Moving swiftly, he crept through the back door, across the porch and to the screen door, which squealed in protest as he pushed it open. And then all hell broke loose.

Alerted by the sound, Vladic turned his head. Seeing Neal, he brought his arm around to point the gun at him. Neal suddenly realized he’d missed an important step – he had shoved Diana’s gun into the back waistband of his pants and forgotten to remove it on his way through the house. He fumbled to retrieve it. Peter, seeing an opening, pivoted within the grip Vladic had on him, shaking him loose. At the same time, he brought his right arm up and smashed his fist against Vladic’s face. Vladic fired, but Peter’s attack made his arm lurch to the side and the shot went far wide of its intended target. Peter’s momentum kept him going, and he tripped Vladic up with his left foot, pushed him to the ground and held him there as Diana ran over, her weapon trained on him.

“Vladic!” Diana shouted.

“Peter!” Neal yelled.

“Anthony?” a woman said from the driveway, her voice alarmed.

“Rebecca,” Peter said, surging to his feet and standing in the midst of all the confusion, swaying suddenly on his feet.

Neal rushed down the steps and caught him just before his knees gave out.

xxXXxxXXxxXXxx

“Peter!” the man who’d somehow appeared from inside the house said as he took hold of Anthony’s arm. Everything had started going fuzzy once the man who’d attacked him was subdued, Anthony's vision going all white and blurry around the edges, and he was grateful for the support. “Let’s sit you down,” the man continued, leading him to the back stairs and easing him into a sitting position.

The man was younger than Anthony, handsome and well-dressed, lean and light on his feet. His grip was strong, sure, and somehow familiar. Once he had him seated, he pushed Anthony forward slightly so that his head hung down, rubbing his back between his shoulder blades until the fuzziness faded. When it did, Anthony sat back up and recoiled slightly from the man’s touch. He withdrew his hand, and there was no mistaking the hurt and confusion in his eyes as Anthony looked up at him. “Thanks,” he said.

“I’m just glad we got here in time.” He drew a shuddering breath and let it out slowly. “I was sure Vladic would beat us here.”

“Vladic?”

“Uh-huh. That is him, isn’t it? Sure looks like his mugshot.”

Anthony glanced over at the man who’d attacked him. He was lying on his belly in the driveway, his hands cuffed behind his back, and the young woman from the FBI had her foot resting between his shoulder blades, which forced his face down into the gravel. Anthony glanced up as Rebecca made her way over to where he was sitting.

“Rebecca!”

“Anthony, what’s happened here? Are you OK?” she asked, her tone gentle, but her voice wavering with panic.

“I, uh, I don’t know. That man tried to kill me and these people,” he indicated the young man and woman, “stopped him.”

“Anthony?” the young man said, shaking his head in confusion. “What’s going on here? I don’t understand.” 

“Do you know this man?” Rebecca asked him.

“Of course I do. He’s my best friend. His name is Peter Burke.”

 _Peter Burke._ Anthony looked up at the young man as he said it, let the words resonate in his head for a second. It was a good name. A solid name. A name he found he liked. 

But one he didn’t recognize in the least. 

“I’m Peter Burke?”

“Of course you are. What is wrong?”

“I can explain,” Rebecca said. “He has retrograde amnesia. He turned up here several weeks ago with a bullet in his shoulder and a very nasty concussion. Until today, we had no idea who he was or how he got here.”

Realization dawned on the young man’s face as he put it all together. He rested his hand on Anthony's shoulder and said, “I think I can fill in some of the blanks. Peter here is a Special Agent with the FBI in New York. He was undercover, investigating that man,” he indicated the man on the ground, “who is the second in command of a very dangerous criminal organization. We’re not sure exactly what happened, but one day, he disappeared without a trace. There were rumors he’d been murdered, but no body was ever recovered. It explains how he was injured, but I don’t know how he wound up here.”

“Well, I found him jumping off a truck hauling electrical cabling, so I guess he may have fallen on top of it when he was shot. God, Anthony, you’ve got a knack for getting in trouble!”

Anthony heard their conversation, but nevertheless was completely distracted. “I’m Peter Burke?” he repeated.

“Yes,” the young man told him emphatically. He reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a small blue folder, handed it over. When Anthony opened it, he saw a picture of himself staring back at him – it was the FBI badge and identification of Special Agent Peter Burke. “I, um, I kept this for you. So you’d have it back as soon as we found you. I know how important it is to you.” Anthony noticed the young man’s voice broke when he said this, that there was a lot of emotion behind his words.

“Thanks,” he said, but he thought his own voice sounded hollow. He stared down at the credentials, hard, trying to absorb every letter of the ID, every indentation and curve on the badge. But none of it was familiar – not the picture, not the badge, and most importantly, _not the name._

Throughout the ordeal of the last few weeks, the one thing that had kept him hopeful, that had kept him from completely giving in to the despair he could feel working away at the back of his brain, was the idea that, if he ever learned his name, he’d somehow get everything back. So many of his dreams ended at the point where the mystery woman whose face he could never see was about to say his name that he naturally assumed that his name would be the key that would unlock his memories, give him his identity back. But he was wrong, and hearing his name, being with someone who was clearly important to him – someone who said he was his friend – hadn’t brought anything back. 

“I’m Rebecca, by the way. Rebecca Papas,” she said, holding her hand out to the young man, who took it with a charming smile and shook it.

“Neal Caffrey. That’s Agent Diana Berrigan. It is an honor to meet you.” He clapped his hand on Anthony's shoulder and smiled. “And as usual, Peter, you do wind up with the most attractive women.”

But Anthony wasn’t paying attention to their exchange. Not regaining his memory once he learned his name was a crushing blow to him. He could no longer hold back the disappointment this setback had delivered, the grief, the despair. A sob escaped his lips before he knew what was happening.

“Peter?”

“I don’t know you,” Anthony said to the young man.

“I’m Neal.”

“I don’t know you. I should know you. I don’t know you.” He knew he was babbling, but the anguish he felt was overwhelming. He began to hyperventilate. “I don’t – I – why? Why don’t I know you?“

“Peter, calm down.”

“Anthony – I mean, Peter, it’ll be OK. You can’t rush it,” Rebecca was saying.

But the fuzziness in his vision had returned and their words seemed so far away all of a sudden. He thought he heard the distant wail of a siren as the ground rushed up to meet him, and then everything went black.

xxXXxxXXxxXXxx

Elizabeth watched with exasperation as Moz carefully reread the instructions on the gas pump for fueling the car. “Have you never done this before?”

“You can’t be too careful,” he muttered, easing her debit card into the slot and pulling it out slowly. It beeped, not registering the information on the magnetic strip. He did it again and of course, it didn’t work. “I think it’s defective.”

“Oh, jeez Louise,” El sighed and grabbed the thing. Swiping it quickly through the slot, she elbowed him out of the way and started the pump. She was spared his latest theories on how the ethanol in the gasoline had mind controlling properties by the buzzing of her cell phone. It was Neal. She almost dreaded answering it – she hadn’t heard from him since he and Diana had picked up their rental car.

“Hello?” she said, her voice high and frightened-sounding in her own ears.

His voice seemed urgent, “We found him.”

Elizabeth almost fainted from relief. “Oh my God. Thank you, Neal. Thank you.”

“How far away are you?”

“About twenty miles.”

“What’s taking so long?”

“Have you ever driven with Mozzie? He makes my Great Aunt Pearl look like Danica Patrick.” Moz squeaked in protest. “Why?”

Neal took a deep breath. “Listen to me when I say to you that Peter is well and he is safe. Did you hear that?”

“Of course, Neal. Why? What is it?”

“There’s a slight complication. Just, when you get here, go to Ephrata Community Hospital.”

“What?!” She couldn’t keep the panic from her voice.

“Did I not just say he’s well? I can’t tell you this over the phone. Call when you arrive – I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

\----

El didn’t let Moz drive the remaining distance, and so they made it to the hospital in under a half hour. Neal met them at the front entrance, and led her to the inner atrium, where he made her sit down under a braided fichus tree that was decorated with white twinkle lights. She briefly wondered if they were really in a shopping mall.

He took a seat next to her, turned so he was facing her and grasped each of her forearms in his hands. He opened his mouth and no words came out. 

“Neal, I will kill you dead if you don’t speak now,” she told him calmly. 

He sighed. “I’m sorry. There is just no easy way to say this. Peter has suffered a head injury. He’s got amnesia.”

She stared at his mouth as he spoke, knew there were words coming out, but it was as if they were being delivered to her ears in another language. “Say that again.”

“Peter has amnesia. He has no memory of his life or his identity. It happened weeks ago when he disappeared, which explains why he never contacted anyone. He doesn’t remember…a thing.”

She turned her hands upward and grasped his wrists, her nails digging into the flesh. “He…has no memories,” she said, trying to get her brain around it. 

“El, I’m so sorry.” Neal had tears in his eyes that matched hers, and he reached out to take her into his arms, but she pulled away and stood up abruptly. 

“No!” she nearly shouted. “It’s not fair!”

He reached for her again, and once more she evaded him. 

“No, these things just don’t happen. We got this far, Neal, but it’s like he’s being taken away all over again. It’s …he’s…it’s just not fair.” She was reminded of the nightmare she’d had the night before, when she dreamt she’d lost Peter for good, and couldn’t help wondering if it had been an omen. Eventually, she let Neal take her into his arms and wept as she’d never done before. 

\----

Anthony sat in the family waiting room in the ER, the setting sun shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him; the sun’s rays should have warmed him, but he felt a deep chill. The ER docs had patched up his wounds from the fight with the man Vladic, and given him a head CT to be sure he hadn’t aggravated his previous injury. They’d pronounced him healthy, and so now he waited for Neal to return, to take him home – home to his real life. 

Rebecca sat beside him holding his hand and occasionally reminding him this was a good thing.

“I still don’t remember,” he said bleakly. This realization lay like a weight on his chest, a physical thing.

“I’m sorry, but we knew this might happen.”

“You’re right, but I thought if I knew my own name that it would all come back. I just… _I need it to come back_!”

She squeezed his hand and said nothing more; she seemed at a loss for words. She turned her head as a movement caught her eye. Neal had returned, and with him was another woman – not the FBI agent they’d met before. “Peter?” she said as they entered the room.

Anthony started as he heard her voice – a voice at once unexpected and familiar – the voice of the woman in his dreams. He stood and turned to see her, but the sun setting behind her obscured her face, casting it into shadow. 

She walked slowly toward him until she was finally standing in front of him, head tilted back as she peered up at him. And she was beautiful, with a lovely, heart-shaped face that held large, expressive blue eyes that had a hint of trepidation and doubt in them. He remembered her long glossy hair well, and as her petite hand touched his arm, she cleared her throat and said, “Hon?”

 _Hon._

All at once, a flood of memories bombarded him, memories of a life with this beautiful woman, images of her lying in his arms, of her in her wedding dress, of him putting that ring on her finger. He remembered her crying, laughing, raging, singing out of key, soothing his fevered brow, listening to his boring stories. 

_Hon._ It was a code word. A word pregnant with meaning. The magic word. _His_ magic word.

“Oh, El!” he exclaimed and, bending down, took her face in his hands and kissed her until they were both breathless.

xxXXxxXXxxXXxx

EPILOGUE

“Thanksgiving on Christmas Eve? You never fail to amaze me, Suit,” Moz said cheerfully, entering the Burkes’ house and handing Peter a stack of pastry boxes from the Greatest Cake.

“I have a lot to be thankful for,” Peter said. He glanced over to the kitchen, where Elizabeth and Neal stood with their heads bent over a pot of gravy, adjusting the seasoning and laughing at a shared joke. Peter was so grateful for the support that Neal had given to Elizabeth, and happy that their friendship continued, and looked like it would for some time. “Besides, I missed Thanksgiving this year, and it’s my favorite holiday.”

The doorbell rang again and Rebecca arrived, looking around Peter’s home uneasily as she entered. He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek as Satchmo sniffed at her shoes with interest. “Thanks for coming,” he said warmly.

“Thanks for inviting me. It’s good to see you. I – I really miss having you around.”

He smiled shyly at her. He found he missed her warm, funny personality in his life as well and wished she lived closer so that they could see each other more. She’d helped him through one of the hardest times in his life, and he owed her so much.

The doorbell rang again and Diana arrived, though Christy was not with her. “She had to cover the ER tonight,” she explained, kissing everyone hello. Peter gave her an extra hug and thanked her quietly, away from everyone. She had literally saved his life, but more importantly, had never given up on him and her support had also kept Elizabeth going during his absence.

Since everyone had now arrived, Peter busied himself with ensuring they all had drinks in hand before raising his own glass and calling for their attention. “Everyone!” he said, waiting for all eyes to rest on him. “Everyone, I’d like to thank you for coming tonight, some of you from very far away.” He nodded at Rebecca. “And some of you from as far away as the guest room.” He nodded at Neal with a laugh – his partner had again set up shop in their guest room - at El’s insistence - so that the two of them could confer on the preparations for the night’s meal.

Before he could continue, Elizabeth wormed her way under his arm, and he pulled her to him, her closeness still a luxurious novelty to him. “El and I would like to offer a toast to two very special people. We owe these two so much, for keeping us both sane over the last months; we wouldn't have made it through without your love and support. To Neal and Rebecca – I toast you, I thank you, and I certainly owe my life to you!”

“To Neal and Rebecca!” everyone in the room toasted, and raised their glasses to their lips.

The rest of the night passed with much laughter, wine, and food, with everyone proclaiming it the best non-Thanksgiving Thanksgiving they had ever had. Diana left early to spend time with Christy and Moz and Rebecca – who seemed to hit it off unexpectedly – decided to hit his favorite jazz bar in Manhattan on the spur of the moment. Peter found himself wondering whether Moz could handle Rebecca's no-nonsense attitude, or how she would tolerate his quirks. Well, he thought, it wouldn’t do to be pairing them off just yet, anyway.

Later – much later – Peter sat on the couch with El sleeping in his arms, and Neal sat in the chair next to the hearth, both of them watching the fire’s dying embers. “You know, I don’t think I can thank you enough for what you did for El while I was gone,” Peter began, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

“It was nothing, Peter,” Neal said, suddenly self conscious. 

“It really was not,” Peter disagreed. “I talked to Hughes about it, and he agreed that we’d adjust your radius to five miles starting in the New Year. That is, if you’re interested.”

Neal sat forward in his chair, looking at Peter with his mouth slightly open. For once, he seemed at a loss for words.

“You really stepped up, Neal. I will never be able to repay you.”

“I’d do it again, Peter. You know, I told Elizabeth this, and you might as well know it too – you both mean so much to me – you’re like family, and I’d do anything for you both. I mean it.”

Peter nodded, pulled El closer and planted a kiss on her head. “I know. So, next time I’m stricken with amnesia?”

“You’ll have nothing to worry about.”

“That’s good to know.”

“Not that you’ll remember me or anything, being all amnesiacal.”

“True. But then you’ll be here to remind me.”

“This I could do.”

“I’d really appreciate it.”

“What are friends for?”

“The ones you remember, anyway.” 

\----

Thank you for your time.

**Author's Note:**

> * Title is from the following quote by Edna St. Vincent Millay: “Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell.”
> 
> * Many thanks to elrhiarhodan for the hand-holding and snappy beta-ing.
> 
> * This is the move “Anthony” pulls on the bank robber, in case you’re interested: [Clickety](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8CaDTj0IUHE&feature=related)
> 
> * **Original prompt** : Peter, Neal, Elizabeth (any other characters also welcome!); banter; hurt/comfort that's wrapped up in an action or character-oriented plot; Peter h/c, or h/c in which multiple characters (*cough*Peter&Neal*cough*) are injured & have to rely on each other; characters being resourceful, clever or skillful; teamwork to rescue a trapped/kidnapped/jeopardized teammate in which the victim is an active participant in their own rescue (Peter in "Payback" is an excellent example); teamwork in general; Peter and Neal being protective of each other, or one of them seriously going to bat for the other; subtle but meaningful gestures of affection or gifts/tokens of appreciation, especially if they're a little bit unorthodox or unexpected
> 
> ....I think I got to most of these...except maybe the gifts...


End file.
